I Just Love a Happy Ending
by distressedusher
Summary: Everything is wonderful - right? The hero won the princess, the evil advisor was vanquished, the genie freed, and the three friends even went legit. Omar, Kassim, and Babkak are no longer starving, homeless thieves. Except it turns out Royal Choreographer isn't a real job, and Kassim always kind of liked stealing, and maybe the palace isn't the place for a street rat after all.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: For the stage musical, not the movie. This show's been on at my work for nearly a year, and we've all lost our minds. I must have seen it well over two hundred times. This is fic born of pure desperation, and I am duly ashamed of its existence. A few things are changed: Kassim's characterisation is based more on the beginning of the season than now, he's become a bit more of a dick over time. Also I gave the women names, because apparently that was fairly low on Chad Beguelin's list of priorities, along with 'good structure', 'coherent themes', and 'consistent characterisation'. Based on the Australian cast. God love 'em.

* * *

Omar has never been particularly good in a crisis. The point at which things start going downhill, rapidly and without apparent cause, is the point at which he usually starts apologizing, wringing his hands, and trying to find his friends. It doesn't help that, most of the time, they're already right there with him, exacerbating the situation.

It should be no surprise, then, that when the whole debacle with Jafar goes down at the royal palace, Omar is disoriented, to say the least. It would be more accurate to say that he is panicking, petrified, and pretty vague about the details. He knows that the royal advisor is up on a podium, shouting a lot and laughing evilly; that there is a lot of noise and lightning, and the poor Genie being forced to grant unsavory wishes; that Aladdin is, of course, rapidly trying to swindle and sneak and talk his way to a solution. The princess is there, but Omar really doesn't have the attention span to care about her belly button in the heat of the terrifying moment.

When people ask, later on, in the palace or the marketplace, about what happened that fateful day when an evil vizier got his hands on a magic lamp, Omar will go eyes-wide and voice-high, and let the other three take over the explanations, not remembering much beyond the facts of sound, light, fear, and bigger, braver people taking over. Which is fine; as fun as the adventure was for a while, he'd really rather they'd just sent a strongly worded letter.

What Omar does remember, with alarming clarity, is this:

Three pairs of manacled wrists;

The beautiful patterned floor of the palace;

Babkak and Kassim's shoulders by each of his, solid and warm, and trembling less than him;

And Kassim's hand twitching aside and covering his for just a moment, rough fingers slipping out of line through his own and gripping hard in reassurance.

Omar seems to feel that grip for days.

* * *

"Didn't I tell you?" Babkak cries, and throws himself back onto one of the huge pouffes dotting the hallway outside their new quarters with a satisfied sigh. "Stinkin' – rich!"

"Y-yep," Kassim groans, stretching his arms along the back of a nearby couch, legs crossed at the ankle out in front of him. "This is living the life."

Across from them, Omar is spread out face-first on another enormous pouffe, his shiny white turban abandoned next to him, eyes closed in bliss. He mumbles his assent.

"We really should remember to thank Al for setting us up."

"What, after we saved his sorry ass?" says Kassim. "I think _he_ should be the one thanking _us."_

"How exactly does cowering in the corner count as saving his ass?" Babkak asks, sounding genuinely curious from where he's laid atop his pouffe.

"We stormed the palace!" As if it's obvious. "We came and rescued him, he wouldn't have been able to reach the lamp without us."

"So Jafar wouldn't have gotten his hands on it either," Babkak points out.

" _So,_ Al wouldn't have been out of the dungeon and able to stop him," Kassim counters. "We helped, okay?"

"I say we helped," Omar chimes in, mostly talking into a cushion. "And Al said all the bad stuff was his fault, not ours."

"There you go, Omar agrees with me," says Kassim, waving a hand in his direction. Babkak snorts at that.

"Omar _always_ agrees with you," he says, "that doesn't mean a thing."

"Hey!" Omar cries, pushing up onto his hands. "I do not!"

"Yeah you do," Kassim says, with a distinctly cocky grin. "Because I'm always right."

"I didn't agree with your stupid solo in the parade," Omar snipes back.

"Well, what do you know about music?" Kassim shrugs. "You liked Al's song with the Genie in the dungeon."

"It was fun!"

"It was tonally dissonant!"

"Okay – but," Omar counters, pointing at him defensively – "I didn't agree about storming the palace!"

"Yes you did," Kassim laughs, then shrugs. _"In the end."_

At last, Babkak props himself up on his elbows to glare at them both, and snaps, "Would you two shut up?"

"Fight me, Babkak," Kassim drawls.

Which of course prompts Babkak's trump card.

"Who's the oldest out of the four of us?"

" _You are,"_ comes the chorused response.

"So who gets to have the last word?"

"Since when have you _ever_ had the last word?" says Kassim.

"Definitely since I was in charge of your meals," Babkak replies, already smiling in distraction at the thought. "Roasted beef with fried vegetables, bread dipped in oil and spices, mutton with the fat still on…"

Kassim is rolling his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, _Royal Head Chef,_ we get it, you like your job."

"Don't you like yours?" says Omar, as he settles down on his elbows, arms folded in front of him. "Royal Advisor in training, that's pretty neat."

"Neat?" echoes Kassim. "Do you know how big the sultan's library is? I can barely even read, and he expects me to study all that?"

"Responsibility never did suit you, Kassim," Babkak sneers. "That was always Al's gig."

Omar rushes to the defense. "Kassim's gotten us out of plenty of scrapes before," he returns, but is met only with another snort of laughter.

"Kassim's gotten us out of scrapes," Babkak says. _"Aladdin's_ the one who makes sure we'll have a roof over our heads next week."

"Hey, I'm right here, you two!" says Kassim, both hands in the air. "And I've kept roofs over our heads!"

"I'm just saying…" Babkak trails off with a shrug, and drops back down onto the pouffe, staring at the ceiling and inevitably thinking about food. "Falafel that hasn't been filled out with sawdust, can you imagine…"

"Anyway," Omar grumbles, "it's better than being in _my_ position."

"What's wrong with Royal Choreographer?" Kassim arches across at him.

"According to the sultan, it's _'not a real job',"_ he says, and cups his chin in his hands despondently. "I'm technically here as a guest."

"Well, a _permanent_ guest, I hope," says Kassim, with rather more outrage than Omar thinks necessary. "We're not breaking up the gang, not for anything! If Al thinks he can kick you out, then we're going with you!"

"Hey!" shouts Babkak, launching upright. "Speak for yourself, okay?"

"If Omar leaves, we go with him!"

"I'm not leaving!" Omar cries, rolling his eyes. "No one's kicking me out, Al's allowed to keep me here as long as he wants. I just don't like not having a job like you guys. It feels… degrading."

"What, you'd rather be dancing in the street for coins? Come on," Kassim shrugs. "This is great!"

"Well what am I supposed to do all day?" says Omar. "While you're studying to be the Royal Advisor, and Babkak's busy in the kitchen and the market, what do I do?"

Kassim shrugs. "Keep Al company?"

"He's not a pet monkey, Kassim," Babkak drawls. "Look, you'll find something, okay Omar? For now, just relax." He leans back again, crossing his arms behind his head. "It's the first time we've been able to in years. Quit worrying and enjoy it."

* * *

Omar does not stop worrying about life in the palace; but for a time, he does learn to enjoy it. For one thing, it's positively luxurious to have multiple-course meals served straight to them, piping hot or elegantly chilled, and perfectly prepared. They have servants and valets, who not only do whatever they ask, but are great fun to talk to, and know their way around the palace much better than the three rookies. (Four, if Aladdin's being honest, which he usually is.) They all have huge and comfortable beds.

Babkak flourishes in the kitchen, and though some of the courtiers grumble about his unrefined taste, no one can deny that he knows his way around a feast, despite having been attendant at so few in his life. Kassim, though he might try to deny it, does actually find his studies interesting, and he certainly likes the sense of superiority he gets from the knowledge of politics and the world, even if the records of wars and disasters make him grumpy with offended justice. Even Aladdin grows into his new role as Official-Prince-For-Real-This-Time. He studies with Kassim, and they get into raging arguments over the books; he listens intently to all the knowledge Jasmine revels in, and the places she still longs to see, and is so disgustingly in love with her it's just beautiful to watch; and he gradually begins to learn all the ins and outs of the palace, and the city, and the kingdom at large. Now that they're not at legal loggerheads every week, he even gets along pretty well with Razoul, though they disagree on precisely how to deal with urban poverty.

Omar may have no apparent calling like the others, but it warms him almost as well as the intricate palace heating system to see his friends so happy, and in a business that extends beyond the next meal or place to rest their heads for an anxious night evading the Royal Guard.

And so Omar is, for a time, happy. He explores the palace gardens, and goes out with Babkak to the marketplace, actually able to buy things for once with the money Al gives him. He spends one afternoon making crowns out of blossoms and leaves for Jasmine's attendants, who coo with gratitude when he presents them, making his face go hot. He finds out that their names are Tasnim, Esther, and Jamila, and sternly determines to remember which one is which. Two days he spends with some of the royal tailors, helping to pick out wardrobes for the others while they're busy with their duties. He even spends a day following one of the cleaning groups, learning how they keep the floors and furniture so pristine and make sure even the highest corners are free from cobwebs and dust.

One week, a high-ranking courtier throws a celebration for his mother's birthday, and Omar finally does get to act as the Royal Choreographer. Rashida loves the performance.

There is no longer dirt in every cranny of his body. He has fresh water whenever he wants it. He sleeps in a proper bed, with soft, clean sheets, and is woken up by a gracious attendant rather than the sunrise, or an irritated landlord, or Babkak shaking his shoulder and hissing that the guards are onto them and they need to move on. He no longer goes hungry, and he gets to exercise at the palace pool, or going for runs around the gardens, rather than by fleeing angry shop owners. He can actually afford the blue dye they use in his new outfits, with money the others are happy to give him, rather than stealing the cloth.

It takes Omar by surprise, then, when he finds himself missing the old days. After all, it makes no sense. He has nothing to complain about in his life at the palace. And what is there to miss about being constantly hungry, cold, and afraid?

* * *

"So what's it like?" asks Tasnim one day, as she ties back her dark hair and joins Omar in the gardens. She's been placed in charge of picking out flowers for the third (and final, they've been promised) wedding celebration, and roped Omar into helping without much difficulty.

"What's what like?" he frowns, taking one of the huge baskets from her arm.

"You know," says Tasnim, looking over her shoulders and lowering her voice, like she's afraid of being caught. Omar leans in so he can hear her. _"Stealing."_

"Oh, that." Omar shrugs. "Fine?" he says in answer. "Kind of scary sometimes."

"Getting caught?" says Tasnim, eyes wide and enraptured.

"Well, yeah, that," says Omar. "Or _thinking_ you're gonna get caught. Which I always am, because no one else seems to most of the time. They're usually right, but it doesn't hurt to be careful. Ooh, what about those?"

Tasnim tilts her head this way and that as she follows Omar's outstretched arm and examines the bursts of rich, orange flowers by a fountain.

"She's wearing the pink again," she says, "so maybe not. Did you get caught a lot?"

"In the scheme of things, no," says Omar, and starts to giggle. "Though there was that one time Al – Al had a cold last year, and Razoul came by the marketplace –" He's grinning properly now, remembering letting Babkak tease Al about the incident just the week before. "We all ran to hide, there was this stall of tents for sale – well, the only sneezing tent is a bit of a giveaway."

Tasnim snorts at that. "So he arrested you?"

"Yeah, but we got away that time," Omar shrugs. "He couldn't keep holding us without any evidence we'd actually stolen something. Oh, what about those?"

"Well spotted!" she says, and leads the way winding between flowerbeds towards a bush overflowing with huge green leaves. "But have you –" she starts, as she clips off a few stalks. "I mean, have you been in the _dungeons?"_

"Oh, loads of times," says Omar, matter-of-fact. "Haven't you?"

Tasnim stops and stares at him over her shoulder.

"No."

"Oh." Omar holds out the basket for the stalks as he tries to think about what that must be like: not knowing about the cold, and the damp, and the way your hands tingle and then go numb when they're cuffed to the wall above your head. "Right."

There's a moment's awkward silence as they head away from the flowerbed; but of all people, Tasnim can be relied upon to carry on regardless.

"But _stealing,_ though," she insists as they round a corner. "Isn't it _exciting?_ I can't imagine it being anything else."

"I guess, sometimes," says Omar, delighted if a little confused by her enthusiasm. "Sometimes we'd plan a big job, that was always exciting, or another suitor would come to town, and there'd be someone new to swindle, that was fun. Seeing what we could get off the royal parties. But mostly, day-to-day, I mean…" Omar shrugs. "I was always on edge when I first started, but it's just a job, really. We got what we could to survive. Sometimes it was exciting, and sometimes it was terrifying, but mostly… yeah. It was just a job."

"Oh." There's a note of disappointment in Tasnim's voice that needles Omar in an awful way, but she covers it up well enough. "That's really interesting, actually."

"I guess so," Omar says. "I guess I might've found it interesting a few years ago, before I started doing it. But now it just seems so normal. I almost miss it."

" _Miss_ it?" Tasnim laughs, eyes sparkling in the sun as she beams with surprise and not a little disbelief. "You _miss_ breaking the law?"

"Not _breaking the law,"_ says Omar, and though his tone matches hers, when he starts to think about it, he sobers considerably. "Not that."

"Oh, these are nice," Tasnim remarks, and kneels next to a row of bushes heavy with pale pink and creamy blossoms. "Hand me your basket?" she says, and Omar joins her down on the pebbled path, placing his basket next to hers and frowning faintly. "So what _do_ you miss?" Tasnim asks, and Omar heaves a sigh.

"I don't know," he says, quite honestly. "I mean, there was this one time – it happened all the time, really, but this one time – over summer last year, Kassim swiped a loaf of bread off someone, and Babkak got this heap of cured meats off a traveling merchant for next to nothing, and I'd gotten this _heavy_ purse off a woman with one of the entourages, who was it – some swanky prince from down south –"

"That would've been Prince Rakesh, last summer," says Tasnim with a roll of her eyes. "He just would _not_ stop talking, everything took three times as long when he was around."

"Yeah, I remember!" Omar smiles. "The whole parade was so bored, they all just wanted to go home. They were a _goldmine."_

Tasnim's laughter is high and bright, at their lives so oddly intersecting.

"I bet!" she chuckles. "So go on: Kassim had bread, Babkak had meat, you had a purse…"

"Right," Omar grins. "Me and Al pulled a classic diversion on this lady, easiest trick, and we bought a bottle of wine and some hummus with the money, and when we all met up again – I'm telling you, I know the food here is better, but – that was one of the best meals of my life." He feels something wistful pulling at his chest, tugging a faint laugh out of him. "Just sitting on a rooftop with all this food we'd got together… Course, we hadn't had a proper meal all week, so maybe it tasted better because of how hungry we were, but – I don't know. We were all together that night, just… keeping each other safe."

With the full moon above them, and a cool breeze giving some slight relief from the heat of the day. Kassim had stretched out on his back, arms behind his head, while Babkak explained to Omar how to make good hummus, and Aladdin looked out over the city with nothing but joy in his face, all the terrible things about Agrabah wiped clean in the tranquility of the moment. It was their third night on that rooftop, of what would end up being almost four months in one place, a pretty good run for them. In the rush of fondness that had overtaken them all, Babkak had taught Omar how to darn clothes, while Kassim slung his arm around Omar's shoulders and Aladdin talked about his most recent trip to the edges of the city. It wasn't all that unusual a night, all things considered; but it stands out in Omar's memory all the same.

When Omar looks up at Tasnim from his reverie, her eyes are wide and dark in her rounded face, staring at him rather than the flowers, a few blossoms still held in her unmoving hands. Omar smiles a little tightly at her.

"You appreciate it more, I guess," he shrugs.

"No!" Tasnim cries, startling back into movement. "Oh no, sorry, I'm staring aren't I?" Hurriedly, she goes back to cutting the flowers. "I'm sorry, it's just so interesting – my parents hardly let me out when I was a girl, and then I never went to the marketplace myself, then I got my job at the palace, and – I had no idea. It sounds lovely, though."

"Lovely?" Omar repeats, with a swelling feeling of hope.

"Yeah," she sighs. "All that _camaraderie._ You don't get that very much in a place like this."

There's a heaviness to her shoulders at that – a melancholy slump to her cheerfulness – which she usually only gets when talking about Esther, or how miserable Princess Jasmine used to be. It passes quickly, though, when Omar says "It is great not being hungry all the time, though," and they both cry out at once as they spot the same tall, blue flowers across the lawn.

* * *

It _is_ the camaraderie, Omar decides that night, as he stands to one side of the banqueting hall and stares at the artful arrangements of flowers against the opposite wall. What he misses is being close to the others: not dependence, but alliance; not orders, but teamwork; not safety, but a kind of security in their shared dangers. When things were going well, they rented terrible little rooms, and shared beds and sofas and patches of floor; when things were going poorly, they whispered to each other through the bars of the dungeon cells.

But when things were going as normally as they ever did, sometimes, they would curl up all four of them under a makeshift shelter on an Agrabah rooftop, with Kassim on one side of Omar and Babkak on the other, Kassim's arm slung over Al's waist in their sleep. Babkak would be trying not to snore, and the stars would be just visible through the gaps in the city's driftwood they used for a roof. Omar remembers exactly how those stars looked, and despite that those rooftops were hardly far away from the palace, the stars still look somehow different from his royal room.

It's at that point in his musings that Jasmine and Al run over to drag Omar across the room, nearly screaming with laughter, so that he ends up dancing in a line with Al and Kassim, with Babkak keeping time on his empty plate. At the very back of his mind, however, in a thought left undredged for the fun of the evening, Omar knows that he'll feel a sense of wrongness when he wakes up in the morning, safe and sound. He'll be expecting for it all to have been a dream again: for someone to wake him and say the game's up and they can go back to their old lives again. Living on the streets was horrible, but at least he was used to it. The palace is unfamiliar and strange, the unattainable fantasy suddenly their reality, and their good fortune, compared to those they left behind, still manages to make Omar feel a bit queasy.

But that's absurd, he'll think in the morning. He used to be starving and homeless, with one and a half sets of clothes all falling apart, and a weird sort of enjoyment of getting caught and held in prison for a while, because at least it meant steady shelter and meals for a few days. He should be grateful for what they've got. And it is very nice not to be so afraid all the time.

So why is he unhappy?

* * *

Omar is in a crisis. And in a crisis, he always goes to his friends.

* * *

"Hey Babkak," Omar sighs, as he scuffs his way into the kitchens. The combination of spices is overwhelming on the senses, and the noise is halfway between pleasing background chatter and an indistinguishable din of metal-on-metal, but Omar likes it. Not as much as Babkak, but still.

The man himself is seasoning a chicken which looks, even in death, a little forlorn about the whole business. Maybe Omar's projecting.

"Omar!" Babkak shouts, grinning over the chicken and reaching for a rag. Cooking always made him excited, but cooking with endless resources has made him more ebullient than ever. "Did you hear?" he cries, as he grasps Omar's hand and tugs him in for a hug, making his listless, skinny limbs flop about. "I've been demoted!"

"Demoted?!" Omar parrots, and a fraction of his moping drops away to be replaced by a familiar kind of fear. "Why?"

"Oh, don't look so down," cries Babkak, "this is great news! Less pressure, less stress, more time to myself, and I still get to taste whatever I want."

"So – what are you now, if you're not Royal Head Chef?" Omar frowns, straining to be heard over all the clatter and hiss of the business around them.

"Just Royal Chef," Babkak shrugs. "There are about twenty of us, I think. And I'm still in charge of _your_ food. Habib says he'd rather cook for peasants than for you and Kassim, and when I told him that was basically the same thing, he got mad and walked away. Couldn't say anything about it, though. Isn't this great?"

He's still grinning like anything, and it's almost infectious. Omar's so used to Babkak being the snarky, practical one, he'd almost forgotten what it was like to see him so excited about something.

"It's awesome, Babkak," he says, as a smile pushes its way onto his face, and is surprised to realize that he means it.

"Heck yeah, it is," Babkak smirks, and turns back to his work. "Anyway, what were you after?"

"Oh. Right." Omar deflates at the reminder. "I don't know. I've seen every inch of the gardens, I've been in every room in the palace, I've tried just about every game and job there is around here. I guess I'm just not really sure what I'm supposed to be doing."

Babkak shrugs. "Choreographing something?" he offers.

"We both know it's not a _real_ job," Omar mutters bitterly. _"You_ don't need a hand with anything, do you?"

"Well, now that you mention it…" Babkak trails off, looking hopefully at Omar in a way that makes him worry about what's coming. Nevertheless, he sighs, and feels his heart lift a little bit at being unexpectedly needed for something probably stupid, needless, dangerous, or all three at once.

"What is it?" he says, suppressing a new smile.

"You remember that dessert place, with the amazing basbousa?" says Babkak, clearly ready to launch into a paean to the little shop just off the main marketplace. Omar does remember it, and says as much before Babkak can get too carried away, and the man moves on, lowering his voice with an air of conspiracy. "Well, the stuff these guys make has _nothing_ on what Fahima sells there, but they're really strict about bringing in food from outside the palace. If you're not busy…"

"I'm not busy," Omar blurts out, only too happy to do something absurd if it'll help his friends and give him something to do. Babkak grins, and claps him on the back.

"You're a pal, Omar," he says, and lowers his voice to a hiss. "Now quick, before Habib sees you and suspects something!"

Matching Babkak's grin, Omar hops into movement and darts out of the kitchens, unspeakably grateful for the distraction. Fahima will appreciate finally being paid for her basbousa, used as she is to enduring one or another of them sneaking a slice behind her back, and Omar has something to do at least for the rest of the day. Maybe he could set up a business with this: smuggling outside food into the palace for his friends and the other courtiers. It's probably a terrible idea, but Omar indulges it for a while as he grabs some money from his room and winds his way out of the palace, trying to keep the excitement in his pace to a minimum. He could put on the face of a regular courtier, and earn some cash and fill his days with trips into the marketplace and shops, stocking up on all the snacks and delicacies made better by the ordinary people than the snooty palace chefs.

It's a stupid plan; there's not much the palace chefs _can't_ do well, snootiness aside, and it wouldn't earn him anything near a living, or be as official as the others' jobs. But it's a nice thought.

With the thrill of doing something just a bit against the rules, Omar slips out of the palace gates with a nod to the guards, and – as soon as he's out of sight – runs off into the city with glee. He's halfway to Fahima's shop, light on his feet and beaming at everything, when his hackles suddenly rise and his spirits plummet, all instincts screaming at him to _flee._ It must be an indication of how used to palace life he already is that it takes a moment or two for him to realize what's going on; but somewhere up ahead, pushing through the main street and into the alleys, is the familiar hustle and bustle of someone getting in trouble with the law. People – mostly guards – are shouting, and the crowd is trying to make room for a chase when there's barely enough room for the crowd itself. Omar forces himself to stay calm: to not look scared or guilty, or run on instinct. He's barely managed it by the time the chase reaches his part of the crowd, and a guard looks over everyone's heads, catches sight of him, and yells:

" _There's one of them!"_

Life-saving, well-practiced fear drips down Omar's spine. In the space of seconds, his eyes go wide, his shoulders tense, and he's stumbling back and groping his way through the crowd.

"Oh, _gosh."_

All the jeweled clothes and heavy moneybags are nothing against years of practice. If a guard singles him out, the choice is between fight and flight. And Omar by himself will always flee.

It's the one area of expertise he has over the other three. Aladdin has the agility to go bounding over rooftops, Kassim prefers to stand and fight, and Babkak is rarely stupid enough to get caught at all; but it's Omar's who's just amazing at running away. He's got long legs for sprinting, a skinny body for slipping through crowds, and a face just young enough to inspire pity rather than suspicion in passers-by, and more often than not, when one of the others landed themselves in chains, it was Omar who got away and could rustle up enough money or favors for bail or a jailbreak.

So yeah: even after weeks and weeks in the palace, when a member of the Royal Guard points at him and yells, Omar runs. Scrabbling around corners and apologizing to the people he bumps into, he goes through the nearest shortcuts and hideouts he knows, and adjusts his course towards a fake outhouse behind an apartment block nearby, with a hidden door that goes right through to the alleyway behind. There's no other way through except to go all the way around to the end of the street, and by the time the guards do that, the gang has usually had time to get well and truly out of sight.

Omar ducks under a string of washing, turns a corner, and nearly runs straight into one of Razoul's cronies, swinging around and scrambling to keep his balance. He all but falls back into a tavern, skirts the tables, apologizes to someone whose tea he spills, and bursts through the kitchen, apologizing again for the upset. Then he's out the back door, course-correcting again, and sliding through the dust between a donkey and an irate and official-looking horse to get off the main street. Two minutes later and wildly out of breath, Omar launches himself through the front hall of the apartment block, the shouts of guards at his heels. He knocks a bag of grain out of someone's arms, and spins around to apologize, only to catch sight of one of the guards following him into the hall, nearly making him shriek as he springs back into action.

Get to the outhouse. He just needs to get to the outhouse.

The guards are waylaid by the spilled grain, at least, and the angry tenants, and Omar's well ahead of them by the time he leaps out the back door and straight over the short porch steps. He flies past a mangy attempt at a vegetable garden and across to the narrow building by the wall, then throws himself at the door, bursting inside – and is immediately caught by a burly chest, and a pair of muscled arms. The door slams behind him, and the two men wrestle for a moment as Omar panics, until hands grab his shoulders and hold him still so a familiar voice can say:

"Omar? What are you doing here?"

Which is when Omar's vision clears from the adrenaline and adjusts to the darkness, and he finds himself standing chest-to-chest with none other than Kassim in the tiny space. His heartbeat – already racing – jumps up a notch.

" _Kassim?"_ he squeaks. "What are – what –"

"Omar, what is going on?!" Kassim cries, face wild with confusion, and it's only then that Omar realizes he's almost as out of breath as himself. Understanding crashes in on him all at once.

"They're after _you?"_ he pants. "What did you do?"

"I – it – _nothing,"_ Kassim stutters in offended pride, and Omar rolls his eyes. Rummaging around Kassim's belt is enough to get him to relent, shoving away Omar's hands.

"It's nothing," he says, still breathing as hard as Omar. "I was just bored, I miss the adventure, I wanted to see if I could still do it – that's all. But someone's bricked up the hidden door!"

Omar's face falls.

"Oh, _shoot –"_

At that moment, deep voices reach them from outside, the familiar grunts of Razoul's, well, grunts.

"Search the garden! I saw him come back here!"

Omar and Kassim – still all but nose-to-nose – freeze.

"They're chasing you because they know we're friends," Kassim whispers, and Omar's eyes go somehow wider. Then, in a stroke of inspiration he's sure he inherited from Aladdin somehow, Omar has an idea.

"Behind the door," he hisses, pushing at Kassim's chest. "Get behind the door, and don't make a sound!"

He's barely maneuvered Kassim – whispering futile protests – into place before he wrenches open the door and bursts back into the garden, exaggerating his heaving breaths just a little.

"Guards!" he shouts at the three leather-clad men scattered around the yard and staring at him. "Oh, thank Allah! Did you see what he took?"

"What?" says a man who's clearly in charge, judging by the size of his beard. "You're not working with him?"

"What? No!" Omar cries, affecting offense (not a difficult job, when he's learned from Babkak and Kassim). "Why should I go stealing things, I live at the palace now, my life is great! I saw Kassim though – I'm sure he never would've taken anything, but if he had, I figured he'd come here –"

"Why here?" says another guard, and Omar goes a little shaky and cold.

"There, uh – there used to be a secret passage," he stammers. "In here, see?"

And he steps into the apparently-empty outhouse with his back to the open door, gesturing to where the wall is bricked up in a very door-shaped pattern of new stone. There's barely enough room, with the open door and Omar in the way, for one of the guards to stick his head into the tiny building and inspect it. As he does, Omar presses himself out of the way, into the door, feeling the resistance of Kassim's body behind it.

The guard peers this way and that. The hairs at the nape of Omar's neck are standing on end, and he can just feel the warmth and gust of Kassim's heavy breaths, tense and trying to be silent, as they skirt over the back of his shoulder and neck. Omar keeps his own breathing heavy, trying to disguise the sound. Without looking, he knows that Kassim's eyes will be wide and bright, as they always are when he's surprised or – rarely – scared.

The guard turns to Omar and narrows his eyes at him, and Omar flinches back.

"See?" he says again, smaller this time. "There's no way through. So I guess I was wrong."

"Hmph," the guard grunts, and pulls away again to face his colleagues in the garden. "Nothing here."

"Maybe we were both wrong about him?" Omar offers, voice faltering as he follows the guard out of the outhouse and goes with the obvious lie. But these guards are from a different patch to their old haunts, and only spare him a cursory glance of suspicion.

"He still ran from us," says the third of them, crossing his arms. Omar can only shrug at that.

"Old habits…?" he says. The second guard snorts.

"C'mon," he says, gesturing to his fellows, "let's get out of here. We've wasted enough time on these idiots for one afternoon."

The others laugh, short and dismissive; and in another moment, they're gone, tramping back up onto the porch and into the building, out of sight towards the street. The back door falls shut behind them.

At once, all the tension bleeds out of Omar's shoulders and spine. He stumbles back into the fake outhouse enough for Kassim to be able to shut the door behind them; then suddenly Kassim's grabbing Omar around the waist and lifting him off the ground in a rib-cracking hug.

"Omar, that was _amazing!"_ he laughs, heady with excitement, trying and failing to keep quiet. He drops a startled Omar back on his feet and grips his shoulders again. "How did you think of that?"

"I don't know!" Omar giggles, helpless not to join in with his laughter. "Maybe I've been hanging out with Al too much!"

"Ha _ha!"_ Kassim cries, grabbing him again in the tiny space. "No, that was all you, and it was _brilliant!"_

Omar should have calmed down from the chase by now, he knows. For some reason, though, his heart is fluttering in his chest like a bird in flight. He wraps his arms around Kassim's back, riding the high of evading arrest by the tiniest margin, and curls his fingers into the back of his shirt.

"We should probably tell Al and Babkak about the door," Kassim laughs, as he pulls away and cracks open the outhouse door to check the coast is clear. He seems to consider it safe, and leads the way out into light and air even as Omar feels like he's choking on giddy happiness.

"Why?" he asks through the fatal sensation. "They're not stealing things on the sly too, are they?"

"No, 'course not," Kassim shrugs, walking them back across the yard. "But, y'know. It can't hurt, right?"

"No, I guess not," says Omar, and Kassim grins, and slings his arm around Omar's shoulders to pull him tight for another moment as they cross to the porch. They file through the building, and as they reach the street again, Omar stop and turns with a frown, saying, "By the way, what _did_ you steal?"

Kassim snorts, and reaches into his pocket, rummaging about for a moment, before he pulls out –

"An _orange?"_ Omar doesn't know whether to be offended or impressed, but Kassim just waves the matter away, and tucks his spoils back in his pocket.

"Like I said," he shrugs, offhand, "I just wanted to see if I could still do it. I didn't _need_ anything."

And he smiles again, and shoves Omar lightly to get him moving again.

"Come on. I told you it was nothing."


	2. Chapter 2

The impromptu chase keeps Omar going for about three days. He sits around the palace, and finally goes out to get Babkak's basbousa, and hangs out with Esther, Jamila, and Tasnim as they prepare Jasmine's things for her and Al's late honeymoon. They're going on a world tour, incognito as much as possible, trying to see as many new sights as they can before they get locked into their royal responsibilities. Jasmine wants to take _a lot_ of books.

All the while, however, there seems to be a piece of Omar's brain reserved especially for thinking about that chase. About the thrill of adrenaline, both delicious and horrible, that came with the fear of getting caught. About the easy directing of his feet through familiar streets and back alleys. About the giddy feeling of seeing the single, measly orange in Kassim's hand, the spoils of their ongoing war with shopkeepers, stall-holders, and the Royal Guard.

About Kassim's arms around his ribs. Kassim's chest close to his own. Kassim's breath drifting over the back of his neck and fluttering past his shoulder.

But it means nothing. Right?

And then the tedium returns: the languor of day-to-day life seeping back in past the memories of excitement and danger, friendship and purpose. He feels a little like he did when he first found himself on the streets, before he met Kassim, Babkak, and Aladdin: back then, in the space of a week, he'd found himself without a home, or a family, or any money to speak of. He hadn't known how to survive on his own, but had had no way of getting his old life back, and so had floundered, reduced to begging, until the others had taken pity on him and drawn him into their gang.

At least this time he has a roof over his head and enough food to eat. Omar doesn't remember those early days with very much fondness.

But there are things to do before Al and Jasmine leave. Increasingly, someone or other sets Omar to work, writing down lists and inventories, finding lost books and clothes, ordering shoes, and counting money. He starts to feel like an errand boy – not a glamorous way of earning his keep, but a living nonetheless – and though it's hardly fulfilling, it at least gives him something to distract him from the growing ennuithat's become his life.

Unfortunately, that ennui is always waiting for him at the end of the day. When night falls and the food and plates are all cleared away, and Babkak's gone off to visit Jamila, and Al's retired with Jasmine, and Kassim's yawned his way into his room, Omar is left to peel himself out of his very nice clothes and sink into his sumptuous mattress and dwell miserably on nothing. In his dreams, he finds himself cuddled up warm between Babkak and Kassim again, lit only by faint, familiar stars, and for a moment or two, he's uncomplicatedly happy.

In his dreams, he turns onto his side, and slips his left arm around Kassim's waist, and Kassim leans back against his chest. His rough fingers cover Omar's hand and slip, out of line, through his own.

Omar wakes up feeling the echo of that grip.

* * *

Nothing's wrong, really. That's probably the worst part of it. There's nothing threatening or capturing or killing him in the palace, and when he needs something, all he has to do is ask for it. He feels bad for feeling as bad as he does.

That doesn't stop him feeling it though.

And so it goes on. Summer fades away into fall, and Omar does odd jobs while the others flourish in their new careers. Esther no longer has to rescue him from getting lost in the palace's myriad corridors, but he also spends a lot of time just staring at walls or ceilings, and not because he's admiring the mosaics. He doesn't want the others to worry – they've got enough on their plates, and it's Omar's stupid burden to bear – so he tries to hide the melancholy, but it's hard when the everyone else always has some new story to tell, and Jasmine gets wide-eyed and giggly about the world outside the palace. It's hard, when Kassim's smile is so big it could light up the world, and with warmth and regular food comes a healthy fitness that suits him all too well.

At last, Omar finds himself sitting on one of the couches in their hallway of a morning, shirt open, staring down at his boots next to his feet like he's forgotten how to put them on. He wants to move, but he can't: not won't, but honestly _can't._ He wants to cover his eyes, but his hands feel too heavy to lift; wants to finish getting dressed, but he doesn't know how he got as far as he did except that he did it in a fog of unfocused automation, at its abrupt end like a wind-up toy unable to restart. He doesn't know what time it is, nor where Babkak and Kassim have gone, but at least it's quiet.

Then the door behind him clatters and creaks, and he hears familiar swift footsteps, and his head droops a little further between his shoulders.

"Hey Omar, d'you know –"

Aladdin stops in the middle of the sentence and the middle of the room. His brow creases between his eyes.

"Omar? Is everything okay?"

Omar musters his breath to make sound.

"Yeah," he sighs. "Everything's fine."

Slowly, Al starts to cross the room towards him, as if approaching a wild horse for a getaway.

"O-kay," he says, drawling out the sounds in his confusion. "So… why are you just sitting and looking at your shoes?"

Omar shrugs.

"They're nice shoes."

"Well, you picked them," Al concedes, at last lowering himself to the couch cushions next to Omar. "You've got good taste."

Omar doesn't have a response to that. It feels hollow, even though he's sure Al would never lie to him. The new prince is frowning even more now.

"Omar, are you sure you're okay?" he says, resting one hand between Omar's shoulder blades. "You know that if there's anything wrong… I mean, if you don't like it here, you don't have to stay. I can look after you now, I've got loads of money, I don't need it for anything else."

"No, it's not the palace," Omar winces. "Or I guess, it is the palace, but not the _palace_ palace, y'know?"

"Sorry," Al chuckles, "you've lost me there."

With another great sigh, Omar flops back against the couch, and stares at the ceiling for a bit. He's distantly aware that his fingers are picking at each others' nails, but not enough to be able to stop them doing it. It takes a lot of effort for him to answer, but Al's always had the most patience out of the four of them.

Eventually, what Omar says is:

"You know that Royal Choreographer isn't a real job, right?"

Al nods at that, with a rather bashful expression.

"Yeah," he says, plain and simple. He's gotten even better at the whole honesty thing after the debacle with Princess Jasmine. "I just wanted to keep the gang together, really. The sultan says that it's perfectly within my rights to choose a Royal Advisor, but giving you and Babkak jobs was… a bit outside the bounds of due process. But we're all fine now, aren't we? Babkak got his job in the kitchens anyway, and even if you don't have an official title, I'm happy to keep you here as a courtier. There are plenty others of them."

"But that's the problem," Omar tells the ceiling. "They're _courtiers._ Nobility and stuff. They're here because they've got heaps of money, so they don't need a day job and can go around currying favor with the royal family for the politics, or the prestige, or whatever. I'm not that. I'm just… a kept man. At least Jasmine's maids have things to do. I don't do anything for you."

Al frowns down at him, askance. "Do you _want_ to be my servant?" he says. "Because I'm not really keen about the idea myself. You're my _friend,_ Omar."

"I know that," Omar replies, and the idea lifts his heart, lets him smile up at Al for the sentiment. "But, you know. At least they have something to do all day. A way to earn their keep. Something they can point to, and say –" He gestures out into the big, empty room with one unenthusiastic hand. _"'There._ That's my place here, and you can't take it from me.'"

There is a heavy moment of silence. Omar drops his hand. Then without warning, Al is sitting forward, and tugging Omar up with him.

"Tell you what," he says, "I'm going to have a talk to the sultan. And his new advisor, too. I'll see if there are any jobs going in the palace. Maybe they'll be more likely to help if it comes from me. And if there's an opening somewhere – somewhere that isn't just fetching and carrying and servant work – I'll let you know. All right?"

Omar is smiling again. Aladdin has so much optimistic confidence, it's kind of infectious. He looks down at his boots again.

"Thanks, Al," he says. "I know you've got your honeymoon coming up and all that, so there's no pressure or anything –"

"Of course there's pressure! Omar!" Al laughs. "You're one of my best friends! I'd do the same for Kassim or Babkak, and I know all of you would do the same for me. If I can't get you something before me and Jasmine leave, I'll get right on it again as soon as we come back."

"You're a pal, Al," says Omar bumping their shoulders together.

"Are you gonna put your shoes on now?"

Omar laughs.

"They are greatshoes."

"And you should probably close your shirt sometime soon," Aladdin finishes as he stands. "Kassim's meant to be on his way back here any minute, it's him I was looking for."

Omar's face screws up at that. "What's Kassim got to do with my shirt?"

Al just laughs again.

"Nothing, I'm sure," he throws over his shoulder as he leaves, which just gives Omar more questions. Sure as Babkak making room for dessert, though, just as Omar finishes pulling on his shoes and stands, Kassim walks into the hall with an armful of books, takes one look at Omar's gaping shirt front, and stops dead in his tracks. Feeling somehow guilty, like he's been caught stealing, Omar freezes too. Across the hall, a crease appears between Kassim's brows; then he shakes his head and marches on, disappearing into his room.

More confused than ever, Omar shrugs to himself, and walks off toward the gardens, finally closing his shirt as he goes. Maybe he'll go for a run. He _is_ meant to be doing more cardio, after all.

* * *

The night before Al is set to leave with Jasmine on their honeymoon, the four of them get out of the palace at last, and go back to one of their old haunts in the city, a tavern tucked away well out of sight of any Royal Guard headquarters. It's one of the places they used to go when they had a windfall, with wine that's cheap but decent, and a brilliant assortment of awful, greasy food which they all unabashedly love.

It must be the first time all four of them have been out together since they moved into the palace, and it's clear on all sides that they've been missing it. The camaraderie is easy, and the four of them slip back into their old habits, the teasing and jokes and topics of conversation making familiar rounds. Al buys the first tray of drinks, and Kassim covers the first bowls of heavily-salted nuts and mutton scraps, while Babkak makes elaborate plans for the next course and Omar mentally tosses around ideas for their next drink. At some point, Al cries "Did you see her _face?"_ , and everyone laughs, booming and joyous and without a care again.

Then, partway into the third round of drinks, a trio of surly young men gather at the table behind them, and one of them mutters, "Stupid new prince," and Kassim's back goes suspiciously stiff.

"Don't," Babkak warns under his breath. "It's not worth it."

"Besides, it could be any prince they're talking about," Omar offers, hissing a little in his efforts to be quiet. As if on cue, another of the new trio takes the first gulp of his drink, sets down his cup with a _thunk_ , and says:

" _Aladdin._ Huh! Never heard of him before, and now he's in line for the throne?"

Even Al gets antsy at that, expression turning stony and grim, unlike anything that suits his disposition. Kassim's hands have turned into fists on either side of his wine cup.

"Apparently he used to be a thief, too," says the third man behind them, and Babkak looks resigned to the fate of a disturbed dinner. "And now he comes out of nowhere and thinks he can become royalty just like that? We have _rules,_ we have _traditions_ for a reason."

The first man grunts his assent.

"Nothing but a glorified street rat."

Kassim's chair scrapes back against the floor.

"Say that again," he demands, turning to the trio, and all three of their faces swivel up to him in surprise and ill-disguised offense. (In fact, Omar suspects they're not trying to disguise it at all.) Slowly, the first man rises from his seat, to stand almost nose-to-nose with Kassim. He's taller by a good few inches, but Kassim doesn't seem to care.

"I said," the stranger growls, "the new prince is just a glorified – street – rat." He over-enunciates every T. "You got something wrong with that?"

"Yeah," says Aladdin, as he too stands, across the table behind Kassim. "I got a thing or two wrong with that."

"Here goes," Babkak mutters, and joins his friends on their feet.

"Guys," Omar whispers from his seat, "I really don't think this is worth it –"

"So what are you going to do about it?" says another of the strangers, as he stands and faces off with Babkak. Omar wants to bury his face in his hands.

"Just this," says Kassim; and promptly punches the first man in the nose.

Pandemonium erupts.

Before Omar, Kassim gleefully launches into the fray as the stranger lunges in retaliation. To his one side, Babkak is grabbing a man around the middle and hauling him off the floor, and to the other, Aladdin runs forward and ducks under a swinging fist, tugging at the man's turban and swinging him around as he pulls it down over his eyes. Omar shuffles his seat back, mumbling "Oh no, _no,"_ to no one in particular, then throws himself to the floor when a chair comes flying his way. An unfamiliar body slams down next to him, and he yelps and scrambles back under the table to watch Al's feet dance around his opponent.

Bottles shatter, someone screams, and no doubt the innkeeper's fetching the guards already, while Omar hears the familiar sound of Kassim yelling "You want a go?!" A moment later, a loud thud sounds on the table above him, shaking it to its legs, and he flinches and crawls back out in time to watch Kassim receive a nasty blow to his bare chest which leaves him winded and stumbling, and to see a flash of metal to one side. Without thinking, even as Babkak yells "Knife!", Omar scrambles to his feet, grabs the nearest chair, and swings wildly, smashing the armed man in the back before he can get to Al.

That gets everyone's attention, and now another of the men is rushing at _Omar,_ who just balks, merely glad that no one else in the tavern has seen fit to join the fight. He gathers himself enough to duck, but Al's already grabbing the man's arm and using his momentum against him to swing him around the table at the same time as Kassim vaults over it to knock the man down, the violent dance practically ingrained in the two men's veins. Babkak kicks another weapon out of his opponent's hand, and Omar sees the man start to drag himself away in defeat, even as the guy with bits of chair in his shirt fumbles for his knife and gets back to his feet, spinning around and shaking himself off with revenge in his eyes. Three voices shout "Omar!", and in a second, Babkak's grabbed his arm and is dragging him down out of the way as Al and Kassim swoop in. Aladdin gets a blow to the face, knocking him aside, and after a few swipes, Kassim is hissing and clutching his arm as he shies away, and Omar – panicking with sudden adrenaline – throws off Babkak's grip and picks up a chair leg in both hands, raising it as he yells wordlessly and rushes in.

The knife lashes out, and Omar twitches and swings the wood in his hands, knocking the man in the shoulder. The knife comes back the other way, and he jumps back, lifts his weapon, and swings again, this time catching the man in the ribs and sending him stumbling back into the table.

"Little help over here!" Babkak's yelling, and Al runs over to help hold down the second man, shouting "Babkak!" even as Kassim snarls and, despite the blood running down his arm, shoulders his way back into the fight. Omar swings and misses again at the man in front of him, but the distraction is enough to let Kassim grip his hands together and bring them crashing down between the man's shoulder blades, sending him to his hands and knees. With one hand, he pushes Omar out of the way, then his boot is flying into the man's shoulder, throwing him around and onto his back, where he remains, wheezing and wide-eyed, and waving his hand in defeat.

At that moment, of course, Razoul bursts through the crowd, takes in the scene with an increasingly furious expression above his beard, and locks eyes with Aladdin.

"What is _going on_ here?!"


	3. Chapter 3

Despite Al's pinching and tipping back of his head, his nose still drips blood on the throne room floor.

"What," the sultan is sighing, "were you _thinking?"_

Half-dressed, with his voluminous royal robes pulled on over comfy pajamas, Hamed stands before his throne. The gang of four is arrayed before him: Babkak solemn and subdued, Kassim clutching his bandaged arm and sticking out his chin, Omar _freaking terrified,_ and Al looking suitably chastened above the handkerchief he holds to his nose.

"Your Majesty –" Babkak starts, but the sultan waves him off, grave and imperious.

"I was not asking you," he says, "I was asking my son. Aladdin, what were you thinking?"

He sounds more disappointed than angry, really, which only makes things worse. Omar feels hot and shaky with shame, and he didn't even want a fight in the first place. Al swallows hard, grimacing.

"I'm sorry, your Majesty," he says, slow and reserved, and a bit nasal. "We were just trying to have a quiet night out, and they started insulting me behind my back – as the prince, mind you, not as myself. It was an insult to the palace, not just me."

"It was an insult to our friend," Kassim butts in. "We were defending him and ourselves!"

"And who started the fight?" the sultan asks, seemingly accepting the other three men's part in the conversation as he looks at each of them in turn.

"Well," Babkak starts, "it's hard to say, really –"

"It can't be that hard," says the sultan, staring him down. "Who threw the first punch? Was it one of them, or one of you?"

Silence meets that. Omar is sure he's definitely trembling now. He keeps getting distracted by the faint red of blood seeping through the bandage on Kassim's arm next to him.

Then suddenly the sultan's eyes are on Omar, singling him out, and he feels like the whole room has gone dark except for the spot where he stands, every eye in Agrabah watching and waiting for him to do something.

"Omar," the sultan asks, unhurried and imperious: "who started the fight?"

On either side of him, Al and Kassim have gone tense. Omar's not a great liar at the best of times: he can just about get by swindling and stealing money and food when he needs to, but trying to lie in the face of the sultan himself makes him feel cold to the core.

He can't help it. He looks up, just enough to see the sultan's grave, lined face staring him down – and he breaks.

"Kassim," he says, voice cracking, and immediately lowers his eyes as the other three sigh in frustration. "Kassim threw the first punch."  
 _"Omar,"_ Kassim complains under his breath, rolling his eyes. The sultan glares him down.

"Thank you, Omar," he says.

"But he didn't really start it!" Omar tries, panicking now. "The other guys, they provoked us, they were looking for a –"

" _Thank you, Omar,"_ the sultan repeats, and boy does that shut him up for good. Omar's shoulders sag, his chin sinks into his collar, and he can't bear to look at any of the others, knowing the annoyed disappointment he'll see there.

The sultan sighs once more, looking unexpectedly weary.

"What am I to do with you four?" he asks. None of them have any answer. "You must understand," the sultan continues, "that this kind of behavior cannot continue. You are not only yourselves, now: you are members of the royal family. That goes double for you, Aladdin, but all of you – you represent the palace. And the palace cannot be seen to be endorsing pub brawls, or petty theft, yes, Kassim, don't think I don't know about that."

"I haven't done anything wrong!" Kassim cries, and the sultan overrides him.

"My royal guard may not be your friends, but they do their jobs," he says sternly. "I know what you've been up to."

"I – it's –" Kassim visibly gives up on that train of argument. "I never steal anything _big –"_ he tries, but again, the sultan talks over him.

" _The Royal-Advisor-in-training cannot be allowed to steal things at all,"_ he thunders, and Kassim cuts off. The sultan reins himself in with a huff. "And – now, you boys, you know I don't want to do this – but we can't be seen allowing this kind of behavior to go unpunished."

"Unpunished?" Aladdin repeats. "You're going to punish us?"

"Members of the palace and the royal family must not be above justice," says the sultan, staring him down. There is a long pause as he surveys them, ready to pass judgment. Babkak gulps.

Then the sultan speaks.

"Aladdin," he says first: "your departure on your honeymoon will be delayed until tomorrow evening. In the morning, you will attend an address to the people by me, and you will make a public apology. The money for repairs to the tavern you wrecked will be taken out of the prince's funds."

Al bows his head, acquiescing to the penalty. On Omar's right, Kassim is rigid with pride and a faint sense of suppressed rage.

"As for the rest of you," the sultan growls, turning his gaze on them – "your wages will be docked in fines to pay reparations to the tavern owner, and the medical bills of the men you injured. I will hear no arguments."

"Got it," Babkak chirps.

"Understood," Kassim nods.

And then silence falls, as Omar looks up and his heart jumps into his throat, clogging and burning. He tries to swallow around it, but it's a very difficult task.

"Uh, Sultan Hamed?" he finally forces out, raising his hand by his shoulder. "Sir?"

The sultan looks at him, and he thinks he finally knows the true meaning of fear.

"I, uh," Omar stammers – "I don't have any wages. I don't have a job here. What'll happen to me?"

"You'll pay the fine from your own funds," the sultan nods, and Omar feels his face fall.

"I don't," he squeaks – "I don't have any funds. The palace gives me food and board, and clothes, and if I need anything else, the others…" At this, he glances to either side, fast enough that he can't catch the confused, dawning realization on the others' faces. "I don't have any money to pay the fine."

For another, interminable moment, the sultan gazes down at him, assessing, passing judgment. His hands are clasped before him, in generous deliberation, or in sternness, Omar can't really tell.

Then he takes a deep breath, and bows his head.

"I'll say it again," he says, in a low voice: "I don't _want_ to do this to you boys. But I have no choice." He locks eyes with Omar, who is now rooted in place with fear. "Omar: you will be banished from the palace for one month." On either side of him, Kassim, Al, and Babkak draw a single breath of shock. "You may stay here tonight, but by the end of the public address tomorrow morning, you must leave the royal palace with all your belongings."

" _What?"_ cry Aladdin and Kassim in unison, closely followed by Babkak's "No!"

"You can't do that!" Kassim shouts, stepping forward. "You can't throw him out!"

"I can," says the sultan, "and what's more, I must. Omar will not sleep here, he will not dine here, and he will not set foot within the palace walls until one month has passed. He'll be welcomed back with open arms then, if he sees fit; but not before. Or would you rather I sent him to the dungeon for that time?"

"You can't!" Kassim shouts again. "What'll he do? He just _told_ you he doesn't have any money!"

"Omar survived life before coming to the palace," says the sultan.

"Yeah, because of us!" Babkak cries. "He can't look after himself, not all alone!"

"You may go with him if you like," the sultan arches down at Babkak, and Aladdin scowls.

"Sir," he says, "you know they can't, their jobs depend on living here."

" _My word is final,"_ Sultan Hamed insists. "Omar will be banished for one month. He can get a job if he so pleases, or you three can support him from your own wages if you prefer; but he will not live here. As I said: the palace cannot be seen to be endorsing violent and unlawful behavior. Any more questions?"

No one responds, not with more than glowering, on Babkak, Al, and Kassim's parts, and wide-eyed shock on Omar's. Kassim's hand – the one not wrapped around his wounded arm – is clenched into a fist at his side. Finally, Kassim just growls, "You can't do this," again – but its only effect is to make the sultan raise his bushy eyebrows.

"Again," he says: "I not only can, but I must. Now: I'm going back to sleep. You are all dismissed."

And with that, he steps down from the dais of his throne, and sweeps out of the room by a side entrance. As soon as the _boom_ of the door resounds, Kassim, Al, and Babkak crowd around Omar's petrified form.

"He can't do this," Kassim says.

"He's the sultan," Babkak sighs, "he can do whatever he likes."

Al chips in then, a little more helpfully.

"We'll look after you, Omar," he says, low and worried, while Kassim grits out something about not letting the sultan push them around, and Babkak starts chattering that "We'll make sure you have somewhere to stay, and if you need money for food and things, we'll get it to you –"

Omar squeezes shut his eyes, cringing away from them, and raises one hand to make them all stop talking at once. They do – thank Allah – and Omar relaxes by a fraction.

"It's fine," he says, and immediately Kassim opens his mouth to protest, so Omar raises his hand again. "I mean it," he insists, "it's _fine._ I understand why he had to do it."

"He has no right to make you homeless again!" cries Kassim.

"That's not what he's doing, Kassim," says Al. "He said we can look after him, and I'm sure Omar can find a job or something in the marketplace, just for a month. If we all pitch in, we can cover his rent somewhere nearby, he can take the things he needs from the palace, then there's only really food, and candles or lamps to worry about –"

"Guys," Omar sighs, "please – can we not talk about it?" He looks at them – at their eager, angry, devastated faces, and feels for them the strongest thrill of, well, _love_ he has in weeks. Suddenly, a month's banishment doesn't seem so hard. "I'll be all right. But Al, you need to make a public address tomorrow. Shouldn't you be worrying about that?"

"I can write it later," says Al, waving away the problem. "Jasmine will want to help anyway."

"Omar –" says Kassim, stepping closer to him and leaning in, and this is where their shared height advantage over the other two comes in handy, because it means that all of a sudden, he is all Omar can see, all that occupies his space. Kassim's hands are suspended just in front of him, as if reaching for Omar but not quite going all the way. "We just want you to be okay."

Omar tries a smile at that; the sigh it induces in Babkak somewhere at his side is not encouraging.

"I'll be fine," he says. Even he's not convinced that he means it.

* * *

The rest of the night is tense and awful. Omar doesn't sleep a wink, only lies in his suddenly too-big, too-comfortable bed and thinks about what he can call his and what he should, by right, leave at the palace. By the time morning strikes across the sky, Omar has shadows under his eyes and a whole lot of packing left to do.

He doesn't go to Aladdin's apology. He convinces Kassim and Babkak to go – mostly because the sultan insists that they have to, where they're to stand behind Al and look extremely apologetic while he talks – but he's allowed to miss out on it himself, on the understanding that he spends the time getting out of the palace.

And so it is that, as the city gathers under the palace balcony to hear the new, repentant prince speak, Omar is shoving a comb, and bundles of food nicked from dinner tables, into the top of a fine, woven bag already stuffed with a few changes of clothes and his second-favorite pair of shoes. There's another bag by the door, bundled full of cosmetics, and books, and some gifts from the others: his favorite mug from Babkak, a penknife from Kassim, and an extra, gorgeously warm blanket from Al. Expecting everyone to be at the address, Omar is startled beyond reason when there's a knock at his bedroom door.

"Hey there, Omar," says Esther, poking her head around the door. "Can I come in?"

Omar – clutching his chest – nods. He likes Esther, and she's probably the most friendly towards him of Jasmine's attendants. In truth, he likes all of them, even if Jamila can be a bit intimidating, but he supposes that's why she and Babkak get along so well, and he can't begrudge either of them that.

"Hi Esther," he finally says, getting his breathing under control. "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be at the address?"

"Oh, it's not big deal," Esther shrugs, as she perches herself on the end of Omar's bed and crosses one leg over the other, folding her hands on her knees and watching him intently. "I wanted to check in on you."

"On me?" Omar repeats, and cocks his head to one side at her. "Why?"

"Listen, kid," says Esther, smiling kindly, "I know not everyone at the palace has been the most welcoming to you and your friends, but Jasmine and the rest of us, we like you. I mean, Jasmine probably just because you're Aladdin's friends, so she can't not, but that doesn't matter. We care about you. This has to be difficult, and we're all going to miss you, so I just thought… since you have to sneak out like this…" She shrugs a little. "I just wanted to see if there was anything I could do to help."

Omar's face creases, and though it's not a smile, he can tell it's a decent enough appropriation.

"No," he says, "I'm fine. I'm pretty much packed. I don't… No offense, but I don't know how much help you can be. Palace life is… pretty different from living on the streets."

"You're going back to the streets?!" Esther frowns, and Omar has to backtrack, flapping his hands.

"Oh no, no!" he says. "Not like that! The others helped me find a place this morning, they've paid the whole month's rent for me, it's not too far from the palace – no, that's not what I meant. I just meant… y'know. People don't give me a lot of credit, and that's mostly pretty fair, but I have lived on my own before. When my parents were still alive, and before we lost all our money. And I did my part with the others. I _can_ more or less look after myself."

"Kassim seems to think otherwise," says Esther, tilting her head and drawing out her words in an insinuating manner Omar doesn't quite know how to understand.

"Kassim thinks a lot of things," he shrugs, squirming uncomfortably. "He's not _always_ right."

"Whatever you say," Esther shrugs. "I do mean it, though: is there anything I can help you with?"

"Not really," Omar shrugs. "I've just got to actually get around to leaving, now."

"What, right now?"

Omar gives an empty smile.

"Not like I have much of a choice."

Then suddenly, Esther's on her feet, and grabbing at Omar's second bag by the door.

"Well, let me walk you out, then," she says. "You could do with some company, right?"

"Seriously?" says Omar, and he looks at her earnest face, and her manicured hands holding onto one of two bags containing all his belongings, and he feels his heart lift just a bit. "You'd do that?"

"I told you," Esther sighs – "I know we've barely met, but I care about you. This isn't easy on any of us here, least of all the prince and your friends. I want to help."

Omar's smile is a little less empty now. He lifts his bag over his shoulder. "Thank you, Esther," he says, and he really, really means it. "You're a pal."

"Is this what girls mean when they say they feel like one of the boys?" Esther asks as she leads the way out into the empty hall.

"I guess so?"

Their voices echo strangely through the palace, devoid of life as it is when everyone's attending to the address.

"Huh," Esther shrugs. "It's pretty nice after all."

So it's Esther who leads Omar out of the palace, through the long, winding passageways and the enormous halls, through wing after wing until they reach the gardens, the walls, the gate. She follows him all the way to his new lodgings – a squat apartment block two streets from the palace, where Omar's secured a cozy set of rooms on the third floor – and carries his second bag all the way. She's dressed for the palace, so although Omar mostly goes unnoticed, her exquisite clothes and clean, beautiful hair attract more than a few stares. Omar is almost worried for her, but it's a slightly better part of the city than what he's used to, and she assures him she'll be fine to get back on her own.

And then she leaves, and Omar is alone again. Gradually, he unpacks his bags: puts his few clothes away in drawers, sets out his comb and cosmetics on the dresser under a spotted bronze mirror. Really, it's a nicer place than any he ever had between his parents' death and moving into the palace: a front room, with a couch and a chair, a low table, a little hearth in the corner, and a few empty shelves; and a decent-sized bedroom, with a double bed already covered in sheets and blankets, heaps of plump pillows, and a dresser and wardrobe already in place. He'll need to buy a jug and dish for water, but there's a well just outside the building, and a bathhouse down the street, and a cleaning service which brings water in the morning and collects his chamber pot twice a day. The rooms are not the cramped and crowded haunts of their thieving days, and they lack the wide-open feeling of the palace, the luxury of wasted space. Still, they feel empty with just Omar to fill them, even though they're only meant for one or two people.

It's a relief, then, when the others come and visit. Jasmine is with them, and they're disheartened after the shame of the public apology, Al and Jasmine already in a rush to keep up with their honeymoon plans; but it's nice to have some company. Al holds him tight when he needs to leave, and presses a heavy purse of coins into his hand, brooking no argument and begging Omar to stay safe while he's away. Jasmine hugs him, and her hair is as soft as expected, and she apologizes on her father's behalf in the kind of way that very definitely doesn't say she thinks he was in the wrong, just that it sucks that Omar has to do this. Then they're out the door again, quick as can be, and Omar is happy for them, really: they deserve a holiday, after all.

That leaves him with only Babkak and Kassim, which is fine, because they sit around chatting on his modest couch with a bundle of dates and figs Jasmine left with them. It feels kind of like the old times, if the old times were safe and comfortable and well-fed. Babkak asks, "Is there anything you still need for this place?", and Omar looks around, and suddenly they're pulling paper and pencil out of Babkak's belt, and heading out to the marketplace just the three of them, together again.

"Okay, so, first things first," says Kassim, frowning at the list they made: "we need crockery. Jug and dish for water, some plates and cups, shouldn't be too hard. Right?"

"Follow me," says Babkak, leading the way through the fringes of the marketplace. "I know a great little shop round here, lovely work, not too expensive. You remember that nice wine cup I had for a little while a few years back?"

"The painted one?" says Kassim. "Oh yeah, that was pretty nice. Is this where you nicked it from?"

"Yeah, Jacob was furious when he caught me with it," Babkak shrugs. "Wish he hadn't, it cost me a week in the dungeons."

"Oh yeah, when we couldn't get the bail for you because we'd paid it for Al the month before," Omar pitches in. "None of us had any savings left."

"That's the one," says Babkak, with a snap of his fingers. "Wish he'd had better timing." But he polishes it off with a grin, so of course, it's all forgotten. The past is the past, and all that, and that kind of bad luck is hardly unfamiliar to them.

When they get to the store, the shelves are lined with prettily-painted ceramics in all shapes and sizes, decorated in themes of leaves and flowers. Kassim pretends to roll his eyes at everything, and Babkak haggles incessantly, but they leave with a lovely new jug and dish for Omar to wash with, and a little stack of plates and cups for him to eat and drink off of. Kassim then leads them through to the food district, and he and Babkak fill a bag with fresh fruit, and dried fruit, and jars of nuts, and a stack of vegetables and cured meats Babkak insists Omar needs to eat. They stop for kebabs in a little street-side shop, then go on with their shopping: Kassim plies him with a tin of tea and then a kettle, and Babkak drapes what feels like miles and miles of different silks over Omar trying to choose a color for some wall hangings. They pick up a new lamp and some oil, then drag everything back to the apartment and set it all out, lining tassels and silks along the walls, laying the fruit and nuts out on the new dishes, and each carrying up a bucket of water. Eventually, Babkak looks out the window and sees how low the sun has gotten, and jolts himself into action.

"Is that the _time?"_ he shouts, and grabs for his sandals and bag. "Oh, crap, I gotta get back to the kitchens, they've probably already started cooking –"

Kassim is laughing already, completely useless, so Omar punches his arm (also useless) and hands over Babkak's fez.

"Sorry, Babkak," he says. "Come over again soon? I _need_ to find something to do for a whole month."

"Absolutely," says Babkak, and perfunctorily slaps Omar on the arm. "Gotta go!"

The door opens and slams shut behind him, and Omar watches where he was with a faint sense of wistfulness. Next to him, however, Kassim is crossing his arms and chuckling.

"That's one good thing in all this mess," he says. "With Al off on his honeymoon, my Royal Advising studies have completely dropped. The sultan's still got work for me to do, but since we were mostly learning together, it's all gone on hold." He grins over at Omar. "Lucky me."

"Yeah," says Omar flatly, looking him right in the eye. "Lucky."

Kassim's face falls at his dry monotone. "Oh," he says, looking away. "Right, sorry. That was… stupid of me."

"Only a bit," says Omar, waving it away. "Help me clean up, would you?"

"Hang on, I'm not done with these!" cries Kassim, clutching a little bowl of almonds to his chest. "You don't think I'm going to leave just because Babkak'sgone!"

"You want to stay?" asks Omar, with an empty plate in each hand.

"Sure I do," Kassim shrugs, as he drops back down onto the couch, slouching against the side with the arm. "I've got almonds to eat, haven't I?" And he grins, and says, "Just kidding," and kicks the cushion next to him in invitation. Omar rolls his eyes, and stacks the plates he's holding, but gives up on the rest to join Kassim on the couch. He reaches over to pluck some almonds from the bowl in Kassim's hand, and watches him as he chews.

"So?" he says, through the last of the crumbs. "Now what?"

"I don't know," says Kassim, lounging back against the couch. "This is nice, though. It's a nice place, I mean. Not as nice as the palace, obviously, but y'know… It's cozy. _Homely._ Y'know?"

Omar looks around him, at the little crack near the ceiling, and the colored tassels hanging along the walls, and the small but comfortable arrangement of furniture. "Yeah," he says, with a hint of a sigh. "It's – it's the kind of place I only dreamed of living in before… all this."

Kassim nods, popping another almond in his mouth.

"That's what I mean," he says, between chews. "Nice." He swallows hard.

"We've been very lucky," Omar says to the wall. "Right?"

"Can't disagree with you there," Kassim replies, to a different wall. "It's hard to believe sometimes. Now and then –" He stops himself; glances at Omar for the stillest of moments; then pushes through the hesitation and goes on, addressing the wall again. "Now and then I dream that we're back on the streets. Nightmares, sometimes, but usually just dreams. And when I wake up, it's – hard to adjust. Takes a while, longer than it should."

Bit by bit, he looks at Omar again, who finds himself no longer staring at the wall, but at Kassim, wearing a richer approximation of his old clothes, hair flat and a little out of place from his fez, hands still on the almond bowl. Omar can't look away when their eyes meet.

"Is that strange?" Kassim asks.

Omar doesn't need to think about the answer for long.

"No," he says. "I don't think so. The same thing happens to me sometimes. It was all so sudden, it'd be crazy to expect us just to be used to it already."

Kassim is staring at him like he's just solved the greatest riddle ever told: wide-eyed, but without the violence of a sudden shock, lips parted just a fraction in astonishment. Without breaking his gaze, he sets the almonds down on the table, and Omar feels like all of a sudden the whole world is balancing on a knife's edge, something wound up tight in the middle of his chest waiting to be unwound, or simply slashed to pieces.

"I'm glad you said that," says Kassim, breathy, low, like it's a secret. He licks his lips, glancing at Omar's mouth. "I want to – Could I –?"

Omar doesn't think. "Yes," he says, and then "What?", and by the time he gets to "You want to what?", Kassim has surged forward on one knee and is cradling his jaw and kissing him, and that answers that question well enough. The taut thing inside Omar's chest is swiftly unravelling, as he closes his eyes and kisses back. He brings his hands to Kassim's collar, even as Kassim, emboldened, pushes further forward, with one arm stretching along the back of the couch beside them and the other hand sliding into Omar's hair at the back of his skull, tangling with the dark waves.

"Praise Allah," Kassim sighs against Omar's mouth, then kisses him again, breaking off as Omar slides his hands under the open front of his shirt and across his chest, up to where his shoulders meet his neck. His skin is warm, and his breath drifts over Omar's cheek, flutters past his jaw, and it feels so intimate that Omar could die from contentment. Instead, he links his fingers at the back of Kassim's neck, stubble scratching at his wrists, and pulls him closer, back into the long and mismatched kisses borne of haste and inexperience with each other. Without Omar quite noticing how, Kassim's vest is gone from his shoulders, tossed haphazardly aside, and he's shrugging out of his loose shirt, struggling to keep his mouth on Omar's and bringing his arms back up and around his neck as soon as he can.

"I want –" Omar stutters out, but Kassim is dipping his mouth to kiss Omar's throat, and the thought breaks off as Omar tips back his head and threads the fingers of one hand through Kassim's fine hair. _"I want –"_ he says again, mostly to the ceiling; but Kassim is listening.

"What," he whispers, coming back up from Omar's neck and breathing hot against his mouth, one hand wandering along Omar's arm around him and pulling it down to caress his bony wrist. "What do you want?"

But Omar doesn't have an answer, not really. It's all very sudden, and completely to be expected, and any concrete goals have been lost under the haze of _want,_ and _this,_ and _Kassim,_ whose rough fingers feel all too good against the thin skin on the inside of his wrist. So he just kisses him again, sliding his mouth against Kassim's and enjoying the heat of his bare chest so near – _totally_ bare, not the taunting bare of his wide-open shirts. Eventually, Kassim gets the idea to press forward, and further forward, until Omar drops back onto his elbows then lays down completely, stretching out the length of the too-short couch, feet over the arm and head nearly dangling off the other end. Hitching up his pants, Kassim straddles Omar's thighs, staring down at him with singular intent, then tugs the last of his own shirt out of his belt and over his head to toss it away. Immediately, he bows down to kiss along what he can reach of Omar's chest, down his sternum, in the dip of his collarbone. Kassim looks drunk with desire: eyes wild and darting, mouth dropped open, hair sticking up in odd places.

Omar loves it.

With the long, slow movements of great enjoyment, Kassim slides his palms across the exposed part of Omar's chest, dipping his fingers under his clothes. He plucks at Omar's shirts, the outer one folded one end over the other, like he wants it out of the way but doesn't know how to achieve his goal.

"How does this thing _work?"_ he frowns, tugging at one brocaded edge, and Omar laughs.

"It's – here, let me –"

And he lifts his hips a little to pull his shirts out of his belt, prompting a sound from Kassim halfway between a moan and a tragic whimper, which is both hilarious and unbelievably hot. Omar has to shuffle around and sit up to take off his vest, then unwind one shirt and shrug out of the sleeves; by the time he's shucking off his undershirt, Kassim is wrapping his hands around Omar's ribs and leaning in to kiss his cheek, his chin, his shoulder and neck.

Then Omar sinks back down onto the couch, and Kassim watches him go with an ounce of regret even as he clearly enjoys the view.

"Oh, thank God," he murmurs, as he runs his hands down Omar's naked chest and stomach, leaving trails of tingling warmth and making Omar's vision blur. "I have wanted this…" His gaze is rooted to Omar's skin – rich and warm, with a dusting of dark hair – even as his hands go lower, to pull at the edges of Omar's wide belt, looking at the combination of straps with trepidation. "How do you –" he says to himself, getting at the main buckle and trying to pull it all open. "Oh _come on –"_

Omar laughs again, and his hands join Kassim's at his waist. "It's not that hard," he snickers, undoing each buckle with the ease of habit. "Can't be any more complicated than _your_ clothes."

"My clothes are perfectly normal, thank you very much!" says Kassim, letting Omar take over the undressing.

"Your _entire chest_ is visible in that shirt!" Omar cries. "It doesn't exactly leave much to the imagination!"

"This is Agrabah," Kassim shrugs, "it's the fashion. Are you complaining?" he adds, and his eyes are wicked as he challenges Omar to deny it. Omar splutters a little, twists around to pull his belt off, but can only make one answer.

" _No,"_ he admits. "But I'm just _saying."_

"Well, stop _saying,"_ Kassim murmurs, voice going low and soft as he leans in over Omar's bared skin and takes his breath away; "and maybe start _doing_ something about it."

It's an invitation if Omar ever heard one. He surges up to kiss Kassim's mouth, further messing up Kassim's hair as he grips at the back of his head. He takes the opportunity to at last lavish Kassim's chest with attention, smoothing his palm over his collarbone and pectoral, skimming over his nipple and the rolls of his belly, stroking down the muscles over his ribs. That's the thing about Kassim: he tries to hide it, but he spends most of his free time doing exercises, and it certainly pays off in the firm, bulky strength of his body. His arms particularly are a sight to behold; and, Omar learns, a joy to touch, as he presses his fingertips into the contours of his shoulders and biceps, skirting the cut from the fight, and groans with appreciation. It makes Kassim smile, his broad, bright expression of self-satisfaction and joy.

"You like that, do you?" he says, not really needing a response, but Omar nods anyway.

"Mm-hm," he hums. "Yeah, I like that," and lets Kassim sit back up so that his hands slide down Kassim's muscles to the insides of his elbows, the width of his forearms above his bracers. Kassim catches him before he can get much further, and turns his hands up to caress the space where Omar's skinny arms become knobbly wrists, then long, light hands.

"Well, I like these," he says, hoarse and soft, cradling Omar's wrists in his fingers. "Your sleeves are always just the right length…"

He says it with a breathy sense of wonder, as if there is something about Omar's wrists that fascinates and entices him without measure. Omar can say nothing, as Kassim strokes his thumbs back and forth over the delicate skin, right where his pulse is racing. Then without warning, Kassim bends down again to kiss him, and his hands slip away from Omar's, only to land instead on the waist of his pants, slowly, beautifully, pushing down the fabric to let his fingers run over the dips and bumps of Omar's hipbones, careful and calloused against the sensitive skin, thrilling up Omar's spine.

"Can I?" Kassim asks on a breath, pulling back enough to hold himself up without the use of his hands, as they linger around Omar's ilia. "Touch you?"

Omar huffs out a laugh. "You're already touching me," he says, breathless with it, with desire and delight, and the distraction of Kassim's fingers, smoothing and circling – "but go ahead. Please."

So Kassim shifts back on his knees, Omar's hands on the ends of his thighs, feeling muscle, as always, beneath the loose folds of fabric. He leans down to kiss Omar's chest again, his nipple, his rib, his quivering stomach, even as he pulls layers of fabric down off Omar's hips and drags the smooth backs of his knuckles along the insides of Omar's thighs. With Kassim on top of him, Omar can hardly spread his legs, but he wants to, and boy does he try, turning out his hips and squirming in place for better access, a better touch.

"Is this all right?" Kassim asks, and it surprises a laugh all the way out of Omar's chest.

" _No,"_ he complains, catching Kassim's eye. "I said you can _touch me,_ Kassim."

"I'm already touching you," he smirks, hands still lingering at the insides of his thighs, and if he's trying to wind Omar up, he's doing a very good job of it.

"You know where!" Omar cries, still with laughter bubbling up in his chest.

"O-oh, right," Kassim drawls, raising his eyes as if in realization or contemplation. "You mean _here?"_

With which he smooths his palm along the whole length of Omar's half-hard prick, dragging a long, satisfied groan from Omar's throat, bared as he tips his head back over the edge of the couch and closes his eyes in enjoyment. Kassim strokes him again, up, then down, tortuously slow, uncomfortably dry, and without thinking, Omar is hard and twisting his hips to try and get more out of Kassim's exploring, experimental touch.

Then suddenly Kassim's hand is gone, and he's muttering "Hang on a sec," as he cranes himself away from the couch to rummage around in their bag of shopping. Omar's eyes snap open to watch him, and he's just ready to voice a complaint when Kassim cries out in triumph and pulls back to the couch, settling himself again with the bottle of lamp oil in his hand.

"Think this might help?" he grins, and Omar answers with a crooked, bemused smile.

"You're a _genius,"_ he says, kind of meaning it, too. Kassim twists out the cork, tossing it aside so that it'll take Omar ages to find later when he cleans up, and pours a liberal amount into his palm, setting the bottle on the table. Without any more ceremony, he reaches down and, in one long, leisurely slide, drags his hand along Omar's prick, slick and dripping with oil. It forces a sigh of pleasure out of Omar's throat, then another, louder one as Kassim wraps his fingers in a circle and spreads out the oil in slow, deliberate strokes.

"Is that good?" he asks, shifting closer over Omar, who nods, eyelids fluttering.

"It's good," he pants – "it's good –"

"It is _good?"_ Kassim asks again, teasing now, as Omar's hips stutter along with his breath, and he whines, "It's _goo-od,"_ voice faltering over the sounds. The helplessness of it – the strain of arousal, at Kassim's whim, making Omar's voice crack and his fingertips dig into Kassim's thighs – spurs Kassim on, so that he leans down on one elbow and kisses Omar, messy and unhurried, tongue wet and warm and leaving a sharp taste. Omar bends his knees, flattening his feet against the couch cushions (shoes on the furniture, the palace cleaners would be _mortified)_ , as Kassim's hand speeds up between his legs, hitching Omar's breath as it pants into Kassim's mouth.

It takes Omar a few, wordless tries to find his voice, letting out splinters of sound between kisses until he swallows and ask, "What about you?"

"Shit, Omar, who cares about me," says Kassim, pumping him harder and earning a fractured groan in response. "This is _perfect."_

Omar doesn't have quite enough thoughts to form a coherent response, so instead he drags his hands along the outer edges of Kassim's thighs until he has two, perfect handfuls of backside by which to pull him closer. He gets a moan in response, and Kassim's brow dropping to his collar, and tries again, spreading his fingers and squeezing muscle and fat and thoroughly enjoying it.

"I'm going to finish," he stammers into Kassim's ear, pressing their cheeks together. "I'm going to finish, what about you –"

"Fuck, I don't _care_ about me," Kassim groans, but his breath is coming as heavy and fast as Omar's, and his hips are starting to twitch and jerk over Omar's own as he adjusts his grip on Omar's cock.

"Oh, for gosh' sake –" Omar snaps, and gathers enough of his wits to pull one hand around Kassim's hip and palm him through his pants, a handful of fabric and rigid cock. Kassim yells at the touch – actually _yells_ – face buried in Omar's neck and shoulder as his back arches and he surges forward. It's clear he's been waiting, turned on as all hell by his effect on Omar, as it takes no effort at all to have him pressing into Omar's palm through his clothes. He pushes himself up for greater leverage, leaning on his free hand next to Omar's head, all the muscles in his shoulders tensing and trembling with the effort as his grip speeds up again on Omar, the tight, wet slide of oil making Omar's eyes roll back. Kassim groans "Oh shit, oh _shit –"_ as Omar clings to the upper edge of his wide belt with one hand, holding him close and in place, while the other fumbles through the layers of fabric to press at Kassim's balls and cock.

"Oh gosh, I'm close," Omar pants, as the sudden feeling of tightness in his spine and groin spirals up into the tension of a bowstring being drawn back. Kassim's hand on him grips tighter, moves faster, and drags a long shout out of Omar's chest, making him cry out again – "Oh _God,_ I'm close –"

And then Kassim groans again, leaning over Omar, head dropped between his shoulders, hair dark and damp with sweat – groans "F- _fuck, Omar –"_ and the bowstring in Omar snaps in two, taking his whole body with it. His hips jerk, every muscle seems to seize into life, and he twitches and gasps, both hands clutching at the fabric of Kassim's pants. Above him, Kassim watches with wide eyes and a gaping mouth, as if surprised or awed by what he sees, chest heaving with the force of his breaths, as Omar cries out again and spills over his hand, his long, lean body stretched out between Kassim's knees, there for the taking; there having been taken.

Gradually, the tension in Omar's body starts to bleed away, and he manages to clear his vision enough to catch Kassim's eye and smile with one side of his lolling, panting mouth, too exhausted to make the expression properly. Kassim is still staring at him, but he matches the smile with one of his own, rapt and surprised.

"You okay?" he asks, breath still coming fast and tight as Omar's slows.

"Yeah," Omar huffs out, as Kassim's hand finally leaves his cock, pressing instead at his belly and side, failing to avoid the mess he's made. "What about you?"

Kassim gives a tense laugh, as he adjusts himself on his knees over Omar, trying and failing to look suave and comfortable. "Could do with some – attention," he finally forces out, and gosh but is Omar happy to comply with _that._

"Attention's my middle name," he grins, grabbing two fistfuls of Kassim's pants and pulling him closer over him. Kassim snorts at the bad joke, but follows nevertheless, kneeling forward and obeying when Omar cranes his neck and pulls at his shoulders to bring him down for a slow, wet kiss. He can't multi-task at the best of times, and definitely not in this state, so it takes him a while to getting around to reaching for Kassim's belt, when kissing the man has turned out to be so very enjoyable; but reach he does, unbuckling with unsteady fingers as Kassim watches his every move with remarkable focus.

"Just so we're clear," he starts, "you don't have to feel obligated –"

Omar cuts him off. "Shut up, Kassim," he says, "I _want_ to," and he peels off Kassim's wide belt, tosses it aside to join the rest of their abandoned clothes. As Kassim leans forward to rest his weight on both palms, flat on either side of Omar's head, he shoves his hands into Kassim's pants and grabs two, perfect handfuls of _naked_ backside with which to draw his friend closer. "Give me the oil?" he says, and Kassim hands it over without a word, eyes drifting shut in his pleasure.

"This won't take long," Kassim warns – not that Omar minds overmuch – and then, when Omar has one slick hand on his prick and another reaching further back underneath him, he lets out a long, unbroken moan, and says again: "Oh, this _really_ won't take long…"

"But it's going to be brilliant,"Omar says, making Kassim laugh again as he shifts, more or less on his hands and knees, fingers tightening by Omar's ears, hips pressing into Omar's grip. He drops to one elbow, breathing warm and heavy against Omar's cheek, and says first "Harder," whispered and quick, to which Omar complies; followed by "More," and then "Faster," and then _"More,"_ and then _"Oh, God, Omar –"_

Kassim finishes with a cut-off groan, and a few bucks of his gorgeous hips, arms flexing and releasing in spasms above Omar, who wraps one arm around Kassim's waist and rides it out with him. As he starts to come down from the high, Kassim looks down at Omar like he's seeing him all new, for the first time, wide and breathless and out of focus. He touches their noses together, then kisses him, open-mouthed and panting. He lowers himself onto both elbows, stretching one leg out over the edge of the couch and half-lying on Omar as he cards his fingers through his hair and kisses him, quick, devouring things between breaths. Omar stretches and shuffles beneath him, making himself comfortable, and twists his neck to get a better angle. Eventually, of course, he finds himself mouthing at nothing when Kassim, exhausted, drops his head to Omar's shoulder, then finally falls completely, half on the couch and half on Omar, one leg still bent and slung across Omar's hips, one arm draped across his chest. Their pants are a mess of colored fabric, loose and shoved halfway down their hips, and wherever Kassim is touching him – across his chest, against his shoulder, pressed along his side – Omar is hot and a little bit sticky. He can't find it in himself to mind.

Omar closes his eyes, and feels Kassim's breath gusting over the skin of his shoulder and collarbone, and smiles even as he begins to drift off.

* * *

They wake up an hour later when Kassim falls off the couch. They wake up laughing, and sated, and warm, despite Kassim's attempts at an offended glare. They wake up in a way they never have before.

Kassim kisses Omar as they clean up with the new jug, and water, and some rags from Omar's bags. He kisses Omar's smile as they get dressed again, after digging their clothes out from under the table and couch. (He also tilts his head and frowns at the way Omar's shirts fold over each other, and the needless complexity of his belt). He wraps his hands around Omar's waist and kisses his cheek above the stubble, lingering there against his skin, as they hold off on opening the front door.

It takes Omar first kissing him back full on the mouth, and then stepping firmly away, for them to gather themselves. Then he laughs, and runs his fingers through Kassim's fringe, trying to put it back in order.

"I gotta go," Kassim finally sighs, pulling on his fez. "I don't want to get back after they close the gates for the night."

"I know," Omar nods. He leans in to kiss Kassim again, long and slow but (mostly) close-mouthed. "Go on."

"I'll come and visit," Kassim promises. "We all will. You'll find something to do."

"Thanks," Omar smiles. "Now come on, you have to get out of here."

Kassim pecks him once on the cheek, then once on the mouth, then finally opens the door.

"I'll see you soon," he says, earnest and grinning, and Omar raises his hand and says, "Bye," and then the door shuts between them. Omar stares at it for a moment; then sighs, his heart feeling light in his chest even as his smile fades away.

He locks the door, clears away the plates and food, and goes to bed.


	4. Chapter 4

Omar doesn't see the others for two days. He knows it's obviously busy at the palace – it always is – and that Al is by now halfway across the world, so he doesn't hold a grudge or anything.

It still sucks, though.

He has the money Al gave him. He reads bits of books and goes out to the marketplace. On the second night, he gets so bored and restless that he ends up jerking himself off to the memory of Kassim's biceps under his hands, and only just finds it in himself to feel a bit ashamed about it.

He's thinking of becoming an errand boy. After all, he is quick, right?

Babkak and Kassim wake him up on the third day, after Omar stays up late with a cup of hot wine and an argumentative woman dedicated to social reform in the tavern across the road. They pound on his door, calling his name a few times before he manages to wrap himself up in the blanket from Al and stumble out to the front room, blinking hard as he wrenches at the doorknob. The other two laugh as soon as they see him.

"Late night, was it?" Babkak teases, sidling past him into the room and making a beeline for the couch. "Been having fun without us?"

He winks, but Omar doesn't get it.

"Uh, I know a lot more about the housing crisis in Agrabah now," he says. "And how it's the fault of greedy landowners and deliberate price hiking in response to a fake idea of scarcity."

Kassim is shutting the door behind him, frowning. He doesn't kiss Omar, doesn't touch him; doesn't act like anything has changed very much more than the obvious: that Omar lives away from them for the first time in years.

"It's… a _little_ more complicated than that," he says, tilting his head this way and that. "But that's part of the problem, yeah." He's about to go join Babkak when he looks at Omar and snorts, failing to hold back a laugh. "Omar… You know your hair is…"

Omar shuts his eyes and groans.

"Guys," he whines, "I just woke up."

"We can tell," Babkak snickers.

Kassim raises his hand, grimacing at the mess that is Omar's hair, and reaches out as if to try and flatten it. He doesn't make contact though, rethinking his strategy and coming at Omar's head from a different angle, then another, then retracting his hand and squinting.

"Yeah, I'm not even going to bother."

Omar shakes his head, and leaves him to flop down onto the armchair next to Babkak, who's leaning his head on his hand and laughing at them with a kind of fond exasperation.

"So," he asks, sitting forward and clapping his hands together as Omar shakes his head and ties the blanket around his waist – "what have you been up to? Sorry it took us a couple of days, the palace was a bit…"

"Hectic?" Omar offers, pouring water from his new jug into the dish.

"Understatement," says Kassim. "You'd think with the prince and princess gone there'd be less work to do, but apparently not."

Omar splashes his face with water, scrubbing at his skin.

"Everyone's got something to plan," Babkak sighs. "A post-farewell feast, a return party…"

"Oh, man, and I had to sit through the worst meeting ever," groans Kassim, muffled through the hands he buries his face in for a moment. "All about what we do if Al and-or Jasmine don't come back."

"Don't come back?" Omar echoes, washing his armpits and throwing a frown over his shoulder. "You mean –"

"Yep," Kassim sighs. "All kinds of provisions depending on what could happen. Accident, political assassination, kidnapping… It was awful."

"Yeah, personally I'd prefer to not think about how our best friend is apparently in terrible danger every moment of every day," Babkak grumbles.

"We were always in danger every day," Omar points out, and Kassim snorts.

"From everyday stuff though. Not assassins and foreign armies. Ah, the pampered life of a prince…"

Omar chuckles at that, but it's a little hollow, like Babkak's laugh. He grabs a clean cloth and wipes his face and armpits dry, turning at last to face the others.

"Okay," he says. "Hair. Any ideas?"

"Cut it off?" says Babkak, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes. "How did you _do_ that, honestly, I don't think I've ever seen it as bad as this."

At which point Omar rolls his eyes and says "Kassim?", looking to the man lounging in the chair in the hopes of a more useful suggestion. Only Kassim's not looking at Omar's hair at all. At least, not the hair on his head. His eyes are a little wide, and directed significantly lower, to where the blanket has slipped, slung low across Omar's hips.

Babkak has a rather sly smile on his face when he follows first Omar's gaze, then Kassim's, then Omar's again, to finish with his eyes on Kassim.

" _Kassim?"_ he drawls. "You okay there, pal?"

With a start, Kassim shakes himself, and sits up, glancing aside at Babkak.

"What?" he twitches. "Yes, no, fine. No suggestions at all. You know my hair is completely different, I don't know how you guys handle it."

Omar rolls his eyes again, thrillingly aware of how his heart is hammering in his chest, and how his skin feels a little too warm for the season.

"I'm going to go fix this," he says, tramping into the bedroom and leaving the door open. "So other than horrible meetings about Al," he calls out to the other room as he sits at the dresser and peers into the mirror, picking up a comb, "what have you been doing?"

"Eh, same as always," Babkak calls back, sounding like he's shrugging. "I need to grab some more of Fahima's basbousa while I'm out, though, I ran out of the stuff you got for me."

"Shame," Omar replies, kind of meaning it.

"What about you?" Kassim shouts, with a little twinge of sarcasm in his voice. "You're the one who needs to update us, our lives are pretty much predictable at this stage."

"Oh, uh," says Omar, struggling for a moment with a knot in his hair. He frees the comb, and starts over. "Not much. Hung around the marketplace. Talked to this lady last night about the housing thing. I've been thinking, actually."

"I'm impressed," says Babkak, and Omar hears the distinctive _thwap_ of the back of Kassim's hand on Babkak's arm.

"Rude," Kassim is muttering, though he sounds like he's trying not to laugh. "What have you been thinking, Omar?"

"Well I thought –" He tugs at another knot with the comb, and fumbles for a bottle of hair oil. "I thought I might be an errand boy."

"An – _errand boy?"_ Kassim repeats. "Come on, Omar, you're better than that."

"Well, what else would you suggest?" Omar snaps, kneading the oil into his hair and scowling. "I'm not qualified for anything! I can't work in a shop because I'm bad with numbers, I don't have any skills to sell, I've got to do something." He grabs his comb again with a vengeance.

"Street performer?" Babkak offers.

"I sing _backup,_ Babkak." Omar glares at his blurry reflection in the mirror. "Kind of useless without the rest of you. The only other thing I'm good at is stealing, but that's off the table, now."

"Yeah," Kassim mutters, just audible to Omar. "Off the table."

There is another _thwap_ , this time, presumably, of Babkak's hand on Kassim's arm, and Omar hears a faint, petulant _"O-ow,"_ of protest.

"Errands aren't that bad," Babkak says over Kassim's whining. "I started out doing errands when I was a kid, y'know. Back when my dad was still alive and convinced we could all be upstanding citizens. Boy if he could see me now."

With his hair finally tamed, Omar unwinds and tosses aside the blanket, pulling on a pair of pants and grabbing a shirt and belt before going back to the main room.

"But do you guys think I can do it?" he's saying, as he pulls the shirt's sleeves the right way around.

"What, earn an honest living?" says Kassim, looking away from him. "If any of us can do it, it's you, Omar."

"That's the spirit," Babkak grins. By now, Omar's shrugging into his shirt and winding the tails around his waist.

"So are you guys gonna hang around here for a while?" he asks.

"I've got a bit of time to spare," says Babkak. "We can go out and start advertising your services. You know the city pretty well, at least there's that in your favor."

"Yeah, but the city also knows _us_ pretty well," Kassim points out. "You think they'll trust us?"

"They'll trust Omar," Babkak shrugs, then cocks his head to the side, assessing Kassim. "Probably better to keep you out of sight, though."

" _Hey!"_

Omar straps on his belt, cackling in time with Babkak's laughter.

* * *

Babkak gets his basbousa. Omar introduces himself to some of the stallholders and shopkeepers in the marketplace and near his apartment, boasting his knowledge of the city streets and saying he just needs to earn a few extra coins for a while. They keep Kassim duly out of sight for these meetings.

After a few, exhaustingly stressful hours, Omar has a handful of people promising to look out for him if they need messages sending, or errands run. Babkak sighs, parts with a slice of basbousa for each of them, and heads back to the palace to start the preparations for dinner, while Kassim agrees to walk Omar home. It's not awkward, not really – they have years of old habits to fall back on, a steady friendship, a history of just this – but Omar's sure he's not the only one with his mind on something else, on a topic of conversation that they really need to address sooner rather than later.

Of course, it's Kassim who summons the courage to bring it up. He scans the corridors as they climb the stairs to Omar's rooms, and as Omar opens his front door, Kassim leans through the entrance to grab Omar's arm, just a few fingertips around his elbow.

"Look, Omar…" he says, glancing up and down, and letting go of Omar's arm as soon as he's turned. "About what happened. A few nights ago. Y'know."

Kassim's mouth. Kassim's chest. Kassim's arms. Kassim's prick. Kassim's _mouth._

Omar swallows.

"Yeah, I know."

"Listen, it didn't –" says Kassim, then grimaces, backtracks. "Did it… I mean –" He sighs tightly, and bites one side of his lip. "Was it – just sex?"

A chasm opens up in Omar's chest. Realization, like a blow to the head, almost stuns him.

"Yeah," he hears himself saying. He smiles, trying to reassure one or both of them. "Of course. What else?"

Kassim laughs just once, faintly shaky. "Yeah," he says. "Two consenting adults…"

"Having a bit of fun," Omar finishes for him, and nods firmly. "Of course."

Kassim lowers his voice and leans in just a little, as if in playful conspiracy. "It was good though," he says, with a winking air, "right?"

"Oh, yeah," Omar says, with a more genuine grin this time, and a little laugh. "Yeah, it was good."

"Good," Kassim nods. "Okay. Because, y'know…" His eyes are wandering, not landing on anything – certainly not any part of Omar – for very long. "If you ever wanted to… _again…"_

An opportunity, Omar can sense, is being held before him, and he cannot possibly let it escape his grasp. Kassim is wonderful – honestly, _wonderful,_ in every possible way, or most possible ways, at least, and the ways he's not aren't so bad either – and Omar wants him, terribly. He cannot waste this.

"Yeah?" he says, tentatively. "I'd be up for that."

Kassim is staring at him, breathing just a little tight, somehow, until his face breaks out into a wide, bright grin.

"Yeah?" he says, and Omar is helpless to grin back.

"Yeah," he says again. The conversation is starting to feel a little one-dimensional.

"Right," Kassim nods, slowly, still grinning. "Okay. Well, I gotta get back to the palace, but uh…" He opens as mouth, as if to finish the sentence, but only rolls his tongue, and says: "I'll let you know."

When Omar closes the door after him, he has to spend a long moment with his back to the wood, trying to calm his racing heart.

* * *

Omar sleeps late. He gets up, and prays for once, and eats some breakfast. Then he goes out, lingering on the streets and waiting for someone to give him something to do. Before midday, he runs a note across the city for a shopkeeper on his street, then brings the answer back, and goes to find a neighbor's husband in the marketplace. In the afternoon, he fetches water, and carries luggage, and runs into Razoul for a brief and only mostly awkward chat.

With the money he earns, he has enough for meals for the day, with a coin or two left over, without even touching the money from Al. It feels good.

Babkak comes to visit. Esther and Tasnim come to visit. Kassim visits, and Omar does not run his hands down his bare chest, or kiss his mouth, or crawl on top of him in bed and ask him to stay all afternoon. He thinks about these things, but he doesn't do them.

On his side, Kassim has never been very distant as a person, and he slings his arm around Omar's shoulders and waist, and shoves him in the arm, and guides him with a hand on his back, just as always. That also feels good. It feels like normal.

In no time at all, it seems, a week has passed, then two, and the shopkeepers along his street and some of the stallholders in the marketplace know who Omar is, and that he can be trusted with running messages and goods and errands for a reasonable price. The ones who recognize him from his stealing days are mostly just pleased to see "such a nice boy reforming and making a proper living for himself"; Omar slightly fears the day they start asking after girlfriends and career prospects like the aunts and uncles he never had.

There are hiccups. He spends the first day of winter holed up in his bedroom and refusing to come out, even when the cleaners come by, and Esther and Kassim hammer on his front door, calling his name. But it's only temporary.

To mark the third week of Omar's banishment, Kassim comes around, and the day swiftly descends into him shoving Omar against the wall and dropping to his knees to suck him off. He's very enthusiastic about it; doesn't even give a dazed Omar the chance to return the favor before he's finished himself off with a quick hand and his breath hot against Omar's hipbone.

They clean themselves up and straighten out their clothes, then go out for dinner down the street. They talk about taxation loopholes.

It feels like normal.

It feels good.


	5. Chapter 5

Aladdin gets back at the end of the week, late enough one evening that Omar doesn't even find out until he gets a note the next morning. Of course, he can't go to the palace to say hi, and Al and Jasmine are caught up all day in meetings and reunions with the sultan and the staff. But as the sun goes down and the bone-deep chill of night creeps into the city, Babkak and Kassim meet Omar as he finishes his last errand in the marketplace, and lead the way up to one of the nicer taverns, where a small royal party is already in swing. Jasmine and her friends are there, as are some of the more laid-back courtiers; and of course Al, who cheers with joy and a little bit of wine, and lifts Omar off his feet in a sweeping hug as soon as he sees him, crying "I have _missed you so much,_ old pal!"

Omar mingles with the courtiers for a bit; catches Al up on his time away from the palace; buys Esther, Tasnim, and Jamila a round of drinks; listens to Al and Jasmine sing the praises of every city they visited, in increasingly circuitous, tipsy ways. He leans on Babkak's shoulder in a corner and watches Al across the room, the two of them sharing fond, patient sighs about their friends; he drinks the round Kassim buys.

Over the course of the night, the group filters down: the strictest courtiers go home or back to the palace, and Al gets to spend a bit more time with his friends. For a while, Babkak, Omar, Aladdin, and Kassim join forces with Jasmine, Esther, Tasnim, and Jamila, all crammed in at a little round table and roaring with laughter as they share embarrassing stories about each other. The girls are alternately shocked and amused by their recollections from the streets, but they return the favor with outrageous court scandals from over the years, and tales from their glamorous lives.

The split-offs – as the party winds down in the wee hours of the morning – are predictable. Jasmine and Al get in a royal litter and are carried away to the palace. Omar kisses every attendant on the cheek and farewells them as they wind off down the streets, with Jamila on Babkak's arm.

And Kassim walks Omar home.

They're tired, and a bit drunk, so they don't talk much. Omar remembers the mint lokum he's got in a dish at home, but he mumbles when he mentions it, so Kassim asks him to repeat himself, and then he's yelling about mint lokum, and the echoes of his voice down the dark, deserted streets make them laugh. Neither of them are sober enough to worry about thieves and robbers; later, in hindsight, Omar will marvel at the fact that they didn't have their throats cut in a damp corner somewhere.

The night is cold, and they didn't bring cloaks. Instead, Kassim links their arms and huddles close.

It's inevitable, really, by the time they get to Omar's apartment. He fumbles with the key, drunk and in darkness, but gets the door open while Kassim giggles at him, refusing to help. Then they're in, and Omar throws his key at the table (and misses) while Kassim throws the door shut, and when Omar turns, Kassim's hands are already reaching for his hips, while his own fingers are raised to Kassim's shoulders.

For a moment, there is stillness. Kassim has stopped giggling, and his hands are gentle over Omar's belt, while his breath, wine-sour, brushes Omar's mouth. Omar touches their foreheads together, and slips his hands under the collar of Kassim's shirt.

They're kissing a moment later. A moment after that, Kassim is pulling Omar closer, wrapping his arms hard around his waist, as Omar's heart picks up and he drags his fingers across the back of Kassim's neck.

"Bed," Omar pants against Kassim's mouth. "Let me take you to bed."

Kassim looks about ready to die with enthusiasm.

"Yes _please."_

Omar grabs his hand and pulls back to lead the way. The front room is not large, but it is dark, and it takes an inordinate amount of time to cross it, with the way Kassim keeps tugging at Omar's hand to slow him down and kiss the top of his spine and the length of his neck. Somewhere between the two doors, their fezzes get lost to the floor, and Omar nearly tears Kassim's shirt trying to get his mouth on his collarbone. They make it to the bedroom at last, though, where Omar orders "Shoes off," and their boots get tossed into a confused pile in the corner. A moment later, Omar plunges his hands into Kassim's shirt to get at his skin, and kisses him hard. His hands are cold, but under his clothes, Kassim is still warm, and it makes Omar's fingers prickle at the contrast, his nose tingling as he steals the heat from Kassim's cheek.

Kassim tugs the shirt tails up over Omar's waist, and, having at last figured it out, tears at his belt. He has to stop when Omar insists on unbuckling Kassim's coat and slipping it from his shoulders, and a shiver runs through his form, no longer, Omar figures, from the cold. As he kisses Kassim and runs his palms down from his shoulders to his cuffs, Omar's fingers catch on the healing scabs from the cut on his arm. Something indescribable plucks at his heart, but he decides to ignore it. Instead, he guides Kassim backwards – slowly, because he's also kissing him, and trying to undress – until he can take firm hold of Kassim's shoulders and push him down to sit on the edge of the mattress.

"This makes three, you know," says Kassim, through heavy breaths, then drags his shirt off over his head and tosses it aside.

"Three what?" Omar says, too turned on to really frown, as he plucks open his last belt buckle and lets it drop, and shrugs out of his vest.

"This is the third time we've done this." Kassim's eyes are locked onto Omar's body as he pulls off his shirts, revealing more olive skin made too pale by the moonlight. "Doesn't that make it a pattern?"

"Who cares?"

Kassim's hand is already outstretched for him, and Omar is happy to oblige, taking Kassim's hand and crawling into his lap with one knee on either side of his hips. Their hands parts, only for Kassim's palms to fall with a moment's hesitance on Omar's ribs, broad and rough and warm.

"You don't mind?" he says, watching where his thumbs brush over Omar's muscle, skin, and body hair with something like wonder. In return, Omar is carding his fingers through Kassim's hair, watching it try to flop back into its usual flat position.

"Gosh, no. Never. Do you?"

The admission – made soft and low by Omar's rapid heart, the buzz of wine, the darkness of the room in the dead of night – seems to spark something in Kassim. He looks sharply up at Omar and says nothing, trying to discern his expression in the dark. It's evident even to Omar's tipsy, lust-hazy mind that he's making some kind of decision.

And Kassim is the kind of person who never makes a decision half-heartedly. Everything he does, he does with his entire being, at a hundred and twenty percent, full speed. So it is with everything he has that he answers by pulling Omar closer by the waist, stretching his neck, and kissing him, messy and hard, but absolutely. The taste of his tongue is already familiar, his mouth wet and hot, and the softness of the inside edge of his lower lip against Omar's tongue is more intoxicating than any wine. He finds himself wishing that Kassim would love with even half the passion with which he kisses him.

Omar squashes that thought down; which admittedly isn't difficult when Kassim's calloused hands are pressing hard on the skin at the small of his back, then pushing down onto his butt, urging him closer, cuffs scratching against his skin.

 _Just sex,_ Omar thinks, _it's just sex. Very, very good sex._

All the blood is rushing southwards, and Omar spreads his knees and tilts his hips, trying to bring them in closer contact. Though his aim isn't great, he can feel the heat radiating off Kassim, the hardness hidden by his frankly voluminous pants. The movement makes Kassim groan into his mouth.

"Up," he says, "get up."

"Not a problem," Omar mumbles, and makes absolutely no movement to stand as he goes back to kissing. Kassim makes a noise at the back of his throat, somewhere between a groan and a laugh.

"You're worse than Babkak," he drawls, lips still nearly in contact with Omar's. "I mean _get up,"_ he continues, tightening his hands on Omar's ass for a moment in encouragement. "Or would you rather we keep our pants _on?"_

Omar feels like he should at least give the argument a cursory judgement. For the sake of decency.

"Good point," he decides.

So Omar shuffles back on his knees until he can get his feet on the floor and stands up, hands reluctant to leave their place on either side of Kassim's obstinately stubbled jaw. Then he's shucking his pants while Kassim just watches, trying to feel unabashed by the display he's putting on but failing just a bit, despite how very often he and his friends have had to see each other naked. By the time he steps out of his underwear, Kassim is already sitting forward on the bed, reaching out and murmuring "Come here." Of course, Omar is happy to oblige. He steps up, and tries first to climb back into Kassim's lap, but the man is opening his legs and pulling Omar to stand between them with his hands on the backs of Omar's thighs. It nearly makes him tremble; then Kassim presses his mouth and the curve of his nose to Omar's belly, and he really does feel a tremor draw its way through his chest and down his arms.

"Your turn," says Omar, instead of the thing that's threatening to burst inside his breastbone, and he slides his palms down the scratchy sides of Kassim's neck to his shoulders, then his chest, and eases him back and down onto the mattress. Kassim goes willingly, catching himself on his elbows so he can watch as Omar bends down to drag his pants and underwear off in one slow, smooth movement, pressing his lips to every inch of skin revealed along Kassim's right hip.

It occurs to Omar that Princess Jasmine is not the only one with a lovely belly button.

Omar laves the crease along Kassim's ilium with his tongue, deliberately skirts his heavy cock, and leaves a line of kisses along the inside of Kassim's thigh as the man groans, and laughs, and tilts his head back. The movement makes a long, gorgeous line of his neck, extending down his body as he lifts his hips to help Omar get him naked at last. When he speaks, Kassim's voice is low and gravelly, drawn-out, and fracturing in time to the kisses Omar drops along the line of his thigh.

" _O-Oma-a-ar…"_

Speechless, Omar climbs up onto the bed over him, straddling Kassim with hands and knees, following as he shuffles back until he's stretched at an angle across the sheets. The bed is too small to fit him this way, and his right leg hangs off the edge at the knee, left arm in danger of doing the same. To make up for it, Kassim props himself on his elbow and reaches for Omar, pulling him in for a kiss by the curve at the back of his skull, fingers buried in his hair. His bracer scratches the corner of Omar's jaw as he opens his mouth against Kassim's, and much as he hates to, Omar pulls away, hands already on Kassim's arm.

"Off," he hisses, "I want these off."

"You didn't the last couple times," Kassim returns, but he doesn't stop Omar's fingers in their deft unbuckling, and it's proof that Omar is at least as light-fingered as the others that it hardly takes very long. Kassim grins at that, as Omar throws the first cuff to the room behind him, then he leans back again and proffers his other wrist to Omar's ministrations with just as much joy in his face. He's still nearly falling off the bed, though, and Omar's not so tipsy that he can't see it, so as he tosses aside the second bracer and sits back on his knees, he gives an order.

"Move."

"What?" Kassim frowns, but Omar is single-minded in this.

" _Move,"_ he says, pushing and pulling at Kassim's ribs. "I don't want you falling off again."

"When have I fallen off your bed?" Kassim laughs, still doing as he's told for once and shuffling around.

"You fell off the couch," Omar points out, as he shoves the blankets down to the foot of the bed and kneels between Kassim's legs, hands on his thighs.

"Well, we were done by that point…"

But Kassim is grinning again, leaning insouciantly back on his elbows and looking up at Omar with joy, and not a small amount of challenge, in his eyes. Omar sighs, as much at the expression as the memory, and as Kassim bends his knees to press his legs against Omar's hips, urging him forward, his expression barely changes but for the twitch of invitation in an eyebrow. In reply, Omar sits forward and lowers himself on his hands and knees, laying between Kassim's legs, skin meeting sensitive skin. At the same time, he leans down and catches Kassim's mouth with his. Kassim hums against Omar's lips and follows suit, easing down off his elbows and onto his back until he can wrap two strong arms around Omar's waist and let Omar roll their hips together.

"How's that?" Omar breathes against Kassim's mouth as he arches his back and feels the thrill of their cocks sliding together. But Kassim's eyes are closed, his jaw hanging, his breath coming too heavy for a proper response.

"Good," he pants eventually. "Oh good, don't stop –"

So Omar thrusts again, just raised on his knees for leverage and with Kassim's spread legs bestride his hips. Again, he dips his head, this time to kiss the side of Kassim's neck, enjoying the tingling response of the sensitive skin of his cheek and mouth against Kassim's stubble. He kisses down from behind his ear to his collarbone, and where his shoulder, corded and strained, meets his throat, until Kassim grabs both sides of Omar's head and pulls him up to kiss him properly. It's messy and intense, and Omar is helpless not to echo the little moaning sounds Kassim makes into his mouth.

Omar isn't cold anymore.

His arms are stuck holding him up, but he manages to shift his weight onto one elbow and free his right hand to paw as if in retaliation at Kassim's jaw and chest, to nearly pinch his nipple and feel him jerk in response, to spread his fingers over the slopes and muscle of his belly. When Omar starts to lose his balance, leaning to one side, Kassim takes full advantage of the opportunity and tips him over, rolling them both onto their sides and tangling their legs together. He thrusts hard against Omar, hip to hip and cock to cock, hard enough to make Omar break the kiss.

"More," Omar gasps, wrapping his arm around Kassim's waist, grabbing his perfect backside, "more of that –"

Of course, Kassim obliges: buries his face in Omar's neck and groans, long and low, as he thrusts again against Omar's sweat-damp skin.

"Not enough," he pants against the pulse in Omar's neck, "it's not enough," and he too reaches out, presses his fingertips into the flesh of Omar's butt, pulls him closer. Suddenly, Omar is struck with an idea, and he kicks a little to free his legs and untangle their bodies.

"Oil," he babbles, "where's the oil –"

"Wait, what?" Kassim pants as he watches him roll away, then balks a little in the darkness, and says, "Wait – no, we've both had way too much – I mean, I want to, whatever way, I really do, but –"

"Not _that,"_ Omar laughs, as he rummages in the drawer next to the bed; but now that Kassim mentions it, the tantalizing idea is in his head, and he pauses in his rummaging to groan aloud at the thought. "Oh gosh, though," he sighs, "that would be…"

He catches Kassim's eye over his shoulder, in time to see him break out into a sort of nervous smile.

"So what are you thinking, then?" Kassim asks, as Omar grabs the bottle of olive oil for the lamps and rolls back around to him. His first answer is to reach out and slip his free hand between Kassim's legs to grip the inner edge of his thigh, high up near his groin. It makes Kassim's breath hiss in through his teeth, and he looks down at Omar's hand, surprised at being surprised.

"Your thighs," Omar breathes, and bites his lip when Kassim lets him knead the warm muscle and skin under his hand. "Or mine, either way is fine, but –"

"Mine," Kassim gasps, hurrying to speak over him, "definitely mine, definitely, definite—"

He doesn't need to find the end of the sentence: Omar kisses him instead. In seconds, Omar has the bottle open, and is blindly pouring oil out into his hand and massaging it into the inner edges of Kassim's thighs. The attention makes Kassim shudder and groan, and list away onto his back, legs falling open in invitation. Omar follows, kneading at one thigh then the other, and kissing Kassim throughout. At last, Omar has to pull back to stopper the bottle again, and he's lucky the glass is thick, because Kassim immediately plucks it out of his hand and tosses it aside into the darkened room.

"Where do you want me?" he pants, and his muscled chest is heaving, broad legs open, prick heavy, hair damp, eyes shining with want, and honestly, it's a miracle Omar doesn't finish on the spot.

"On your side," is what he says, instead of singing endless panegyrics about love and lust and Kassim's chest hair. Then he has to add, "Face _away_ from me," which makes Kassim kind of pout in disappointment, which in turn makes Omar grab his shoulder to stop him turning anyway so he can kiss him once more.

"You going to rethink your idea?" says Kassim when he gets the chance after a very long moment, murmuring the words against Omar's lips. But Omar has a plan that he is not going to see thwarted.

"No," he purrs back, and grins, toothy and wide, which for some reason Kassim wants to kiss again, nearly distracting him this time. At last, however, Omar gets Kassim onto his side, and is able to slide into place behind him, pressed skin to skin in one long, sticky line: Omar's knees pressed into the crook of Kassim's, the tops of his thighs against the backs of Kassim's, Kassim's butt against his hip, his belly and chest molded to Kassim's back. In short, Omar is in heaven.

At least, he thinks he is, until he reaches down and guides himself between Kassim's oiled thighs, and the _warmth_ of it, the slick pressure, which he can feel Kassim flexing to increase; now, _now_ Omar is in heaven. He lets Kassim know by gasping out something incomprehensible, and latching his arm tight around Kassim's waist, and when he bends his knee for leverage and thrusts slow and deep between Kassim's legs, it pulls a long, low groan from his throat.

In response, Kassim wraps his hand around Omar's wrist and cranes his neck to try and look back at him.

"Good?" he laughs, breathlessly, and Omar can only nod against his shoulder blades and try to keep breathing at a roughly steady pace. He tilts back his hips and thrusts again, and utterly fails in the matter of his breathing, which only makes Kassim gasp out another laugh and say, "I'll take that as a yes."

" _Y-es,"_ Omar moans, as unconsciously his rhythm speeds up, evens out, and he clutches Kassim to his chest – "yes, yes yes _yes –"_

"Oh shit, Omar, you can't talk like that," Kassim sighs in reply, head dropping to the pillow, helpless to do much more than hold on, and thrust back, and tense his thighs together to make Omar's rhythm stutter, then increase in pace. The very incoherence of Omar's every attempt at utterance, the feel of him hot and hard between his legs, the way his arm is locked around his middle, hand flexing against his skin and hair, seems to be enough to make Kassim match his inarticulacy, his breaths coming faster and faster and his fingers gripping hard on Omar's wrist. They're so close the air around them feels humid, and there is somehow still something thrilling and intimate to every warm, slightly gross place where they're in contact: the swathe of chest to back, and arm to chest, but also the touch of Omar's forehead and the slope of his nose to the back of Kassim's neck, and where Kassim's hand covers Omar's from the wrist up, and every odd place where their legs bump together, and, yes, where Omar's cock is pressed, warm and tight, between Kassim's thighs. They seem to have dispensed with words for the moment, until something in Omar ratchets up, exalting becoming overwhelming, and he lets out a full-blown shout into Kassim's back, lips and teeth against his skin, and lurches forward, arm compulsively grabbing tighter at Kassim's chest.

"Oh _jeez,_ I'm close," he moans, desperately trying to slow his hips, wiping his forehead against Kassim's back to get the hair out of his eyes. "You, what about you?"

"It's not enough," Kassim forces through gritted teeth, neck twisting in frustration. "Don't you dare – Fuck, touch me, Omar, I need you to –"

"You think I can _let go?"_ Omar half-cries, half-laughs, as his arm around Kassim tightens again. "Touch _yourself,_ you lazy – oh, no, oh gosh –"

"Don't you _dare, Omar –"_

But Kassim's hand at last snatches itself away from Omar's wrist so he can pump his own cock, shuddering and arching his back, curling inwards. Omar presses his forehead to Kassim's spine, mouth hanging open, and Kassim's hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, as every exhale behind him turns into a sound, echoed by Kassim, until –

Omar's arm seizes around Kassim's front – his hips snap against Kassim's backside – he lets out a formless yell – and then –

 _"Kassi—_ ah, _Kass-i-im!"_

They both groan in concert as Omar spills between Kassim's thighs, thrusts shuddering to a stop. Kassim groans again after a moment, with a hint of disappointment, and Omar refuses to give himself time to recover before he's pulling out from between Kassim's parting legs and dragging the man around onto his back. He slides into place over Kassim, one knee on either side of his hips, and half-collapses on top of him, chest-to-chest in places, leaning on his forearm, hardly wanting to part contact at all as they move. He allows for no argument by falling into a sloppy kiss, as his right hand goes straight to Kassim's leaking prick, and Kassim's renewed moans are lost into Omar's mouth. The glimpses he gets of Omar's dazed eyes, the feel of his loose and heavy limbs against him, are working him to a fever pitch almost as much as Omar's hand. He has to stop kissing Omar to catch his breath, which sears into his lungs as he at last reaches up to twine his arms around Omar's waist, pulling him in with two hands on his backside, hips rolling without thought.

 _"Agh, nearly –"_ he groans against Omar's mouth and chin, and his lip catches against Omar's skin before for a moment before either of them is able to aim properly, with wet lips and curling tongues. It only lasts a few seconds, though, before Kassim cries out again, squeezing shut his eyes, and stretches back his neck, arching up against Omar. _"Nearly, nearly, nearly –"_

He finishes by clutching the back of Omar's head, fingers buried in rich, sweat-soaked waves, and straining against him, pressed nearly cheek to cheek, breathing hard and erratic through his wide-open mouth. Beneath Omar, his hips jerk once, then twice, and a shiver runs along his whole body, making his fingers tighten in Omar's hair and around his back. The moan he lets out comes from the back of his throat, deep, guttural, and helpless, and Omar drinks in the sound, trying to memorize it even as he tries to memorize the way Kassim's thigh is tensed against his leg, the way his arms tighten around him, the way his eyes are practically rolling back in his head, with a pleasure for which Omaris responsible.

It feels like an age that Kassim lingers in ecstasy. There are tremors running through his limbs, making him seize Omar closer, and his breath comes shallow and heavy. With the moment over, though, Omar is realizing just how exhausted, and still a bit tipsy, he is, and by the time Kassim stops shaking, he too looks about ready to doze off. His hands slide down to rest against Omar's shoulder and waist, but he meets Omar's eye, close as he is, blurry and smiling without conceit. The fingers against Omar's skin knead a little, and he cranes his neck up for a gentler, steadier kiss. They stay close even when they break apart, as if reluctant to lose contact. After another moment, Omar dips his head to brush his nose against Kassim's. He kisses the corner of his mouth.

Finally, with a slight _"Eugh,"_ of discomfort and reluctance, Omar slides sideways out of Kassim's lap and onto the mattress.

"We should clean up," he mumbles, eyes already falling shut. Kassim, with one arm now trapped under Omar, facing the ceiling with closed eyes, huffs a worn-out laugh, and says: "I am _never_ making it back to the palace tonight."

Omar groans at that.

"Well you're not sleeping here covered in –"

He can't say it. That fact that he can't say it makes Kassim laugh, wild even in his exhaustion, so Omar rolls off him to escape, standing up on wobbly legs and just about making it across the room to his dresser. Kassim watches him go with something fond in the way the shadows fall on his face. There's still a bowl of water from Omar's morning wash, so he rinses and wrings out a rag, wipes as much of the spatter as he can find from himself, then rinses and wrings again to take the rag back to Kassim, dropping it with a _splat_ on his chest when he gets back to the bed.

 _"Thanks,"_ Kassim monotones, and Omar can't quite tell how sarcastic he's being. He still wipes himself off, though, while Omar reclines by his head, leaning down to drop a kiss on his temple. Even in the darkness, Omar can see the smile it elicits.

"There," says Kassim, handing back the rag, and Omar has to tell himself three times how gross it'll be to find the thing on the floor tomorrow morning to convince himself to get up again and drop it back in the bowl.

In silence, he pads back to the bed again, where Kassim is already fumbling to pull the covers up. Omar lends a hand, untangling one blanket from another, and before he can even decide whether to touch Kassim or turn his back and try to pretend he isn't there, Kassim is settling himself with his head on the pillow next to Omar's, slinging his arm across Omar's chest and slipping one leg between his.

"You don't mind?" Kassim mumbles, barely raising his head and squinting one eye open. Omar looks over at him, so very, very close, and is powerless to make even a token protest.

"I don't mind," he says. Kassim smiles at that, something smug and contented, and settles in at Omar's side, cuddled up to him without hesitance. After a few minutes of lying in satisfied, worn-out stillness, Kassim, without a word, presses his lips to Omar's shoulder, the closest part of him that he can reach.

It's the last thing Omar notices before he drifts off to sleep.

* * *

In the morning – when the sun is up – Omar wakes slowly, becoming first aware of warmth, and comfort, and a lingering satiety. Kassim is still with him, head pillowed on Omar's shoulder, with his right arm squashed between them and the left draped over Omar's belly. His breathing is slow and regular, his bare shoulder rising and falling in an unhurried, private rhythm.

Still languid with sleep and the early hour, Omar turns his head enough to squash his nose against Kassim's hair and press a clumsy kiss to his forehead. Kassim's leg is still between his own, pressed now against his morning erection, but he can't be bothered doing anything about it. There is a faint headache threatening to overtake his skull, and his mouth feels very dry.

Omar dozes for a while, gradually waking, until Kassim's body heaves with a rousing breath, and he groans and turns his face into Omar's chest.

"Too old," he mumbles. "I'm getting too old for nights like that."

"You've been saying that since I met you," Omar chuckles, keeping his voice low. "I don't think it has to do with your age. You're not exactly much older than me."

"I feel like I've been eating sand," Kassim whines instead of replying properly, and his limbs tighten around Omar, pulling him closer. _"Omar,_ make it _better…"_

That shocks a laugh out of Omar, which makes Kassim flinch and his own headache pound a little, so he turns it down into a lazy chuckle as he rolls onto his side and shuffles down, facing Kassim. The movement forces the other man to shift to accommodate him, and as a reward for them both, Omar tangles their legs together and hooks his right arm over Kassim's neck, scraping against stubble. They're so close that Kassim's face is a little blurry in the muffled light that seeps through the curtains, but not so much that Omar can't see the dreamy smile that is spreading across his features. Outside of the bed, the chill of a winter morning pervades the room; but the two of them are warm, and cozy, and perfectly content.

"Good morning," Kassim murmurs. His breath is foul. Omar's own smile is growing, though, almost enough to match.

"Good morning."

Kassim keeps looking down at Omar's mouth.

"Could I…?" he says, voice low and rough. Omar licks his lips.

"I mean, it's probably a bad idea," he says, feeling like he's babbling in slow motion. "My mouth tastes terrible just to me, but – yeah. Please."

It's a tiny distance to cross. Kassim merely has to lean his chin forward and stretch out his neck a bit, and then he's kissing Omar, pressing half-closed lips to half-closed lips for a few, intimate seconds.

When he pulls away again, his nose is wrinkling.

"God," he gasps out. "We both taste disgusting."

Omar laughs again.

"Told you."

Kassim still stays close, though, nose almost touching Omar's as he closes his eyes and strokes his thumb against Omar's side, over his ribs. He looks about ready to drop off to sleep again, which Omar really wouldn't protest – until suddenly his back seizes up with tension, and his eyes snap open.

"Wait," he says, hand stilling on Omar's side. "What time is it?"

"Uh –" Omar glances up towards the window, trying to judge the light. "Maybe nine o'clock?"

" _Shit –!"_

And Kassim is shoving off the covers, limbs flailing as he scrambles off the bed.

"I gotta go," he's babbling to himself, "I gotta _go –_ oh my God, they're going to kill me –"

"Let me guess," Omar sighs, slumping back into the pillows and watching Kassim hunt for his clothes on the floor. "Some kind of meeting?"

Kassim is frantically pulling on his underwear and pants as he meets Omar's eye, and only says again: "They are going to _kill me."_

All Omar can do is throw back his head and cackle, even if it makes them both wince. The blankets, shoved down by Kassim, are just barely protecting his modesty (if he can be said to have any left, at this stage), and he can feel the cold seeping in. He can't be moved to care, though, not when Kassim is getting tangled up in his own shirt because he's so distracted staring at Omar's naked chest. When he finally gets the thing on, and as he shrugs into his coat, he approaches the bed again, muttering about how much he hates responsibility, breaking off only to plant one knee on the bed and lean down to kiss Omar thoroughly and completely, stroking down his flank. He tastes unbelievably sour, but Omar still clamps both hands on either side of Kassim's skull and holds him in place even when they break apart.

"No chance of a morning round?" he starts to say, murmuring it against Kassim's mouth, and though he can see the temptation in Kassim's eyes, Omar knows it's going to be fruitless.

" _No,"_ says Kassim firmly, sounding very much as if he's trying to convince himself as well as his friend. He sighs, squeezing his eyes shut in frustration, and kisses Omar once more, mouth closed, firm and quick. "I have to _go."_

So at last, Omar releases him – enjoys the last caress of Kassim's broad palm over his ribs – and watches him grab his boots and leave, half reluctant and half enjoying the view. He shouts after him, "Don't forget your fez!", and gets the response, "I'll see you soon!"; and then the door is snapping shut behind Kassim, and the rooms feel suddenly far more quiet than they should.

Omar lies where he is. He feels the contented smile starting to slide off his face. _It's just sex,_ he says to himself; and then groans and rolls over onto his front, burying his face in the pillow which smells faintly of sweat, sex, and Kassim. He lets himself doze for just a few minutes longer, instead of dwelling on it.

But Omar has a job to do, more or less. He has a life to be getting on with. He really, really needs a wash. So he gets up, and pulls on a fresh set of clothes, and wanders down to the bathhouse.

 _We agreed,_ he has to keep telling himself. _It's just sex._

* * *

Al and Babkak visit the next morning, laughing themselves silly before they're even through the door.

"What did you _do_ to him?!" Al cries, as he totters across the front room to collapse on Omar's couch. "Oh my _gosh –"_

"What are you talking about?" Omar frowns at them, as he shuts the door and decides on tea for all. Babkak's shouts of laughter only renew.

"You should –" he gasps, "you should've _seen him –"_

"Seen _who?"_ Omar implores, filling the kettle, and the response is given to him in perfect chorus.

" _Kassim!"_

Al and Babkak immediately break out into another roar of laughter, as Omar feels his blood run suddenly cold. He stares down at the bucket of water and kettle, and barely sees them.

"What – uh, what about Kassim?" he stammers, trying to naturally go on with his task.

"Oh, don't worry, Omar, it's nothing serious," Al laughs, waving down what he reads in Omar's fear. "But we know he walked you home after the party, he must've slept here – and yesterday _morning –"_

" _Yesterday morning!"_ Babkak echoes, clapping his hands together in joy. "Oh, yesterday morning, Omar, he was a _mess!"_

"How much did he _drink?"_ Al shouts. "He's barely even recovered _today,_ I'm pretty sure he's still holed up in his , and his clothes were all over the place, and his _hair –_ I didn't think his hair could even _get_ that messy –"

Babkak picks up the thread as Aladdin descends into laughter again.

" _Stinking,"_ he grins, "looked like he had the worst hangover in years _and_ about half an hour of sleep all together – oh, Allah be _praised…"_ He trails off, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes.

"The new vizier looked ready to kill him when he got to the meeting," Al finishes, trying to smother his laughter, and looks right up at Omar as he sets out the cups. "What did you do to him, Omar, we have to know –

"And could you _please_ do it again sometime," Babkak picks up, "that was the best morning at the palace yet!"

"I didn't _do_ _anything_ to Kassim," Omar grumbles. "I mean, he looked pretty bad when he left, he overslept, but –"

At this, Babkak and Aladdin both start laughing again, breathless and doubling over in their seats.

"He was _half an hour late!"_ Al wheezes. "The sultan – the _sultan –"_

" _Guys,"_ Omar scowls, shoulders slumping inward. "Is Kassim going to be in trouble for all this?"

"No, no no no," says Babkak, with a dismissive wave, "he's fine, the sultan was very understanding, and we were all hungover – he just looked _so much worse_ by comparison…"

They both fade off into chuckling again, wiping their eyes and exchanging a knowing glance. Omar knows his expression is pinching as he looks down at them from where he stands. Finally, Al sighs, and flops back into his chair.

"Seriously, Omar," he says, finally starting to compose himself. "What happened?"

Omar turns away, shrugging, and hides his response by going over to check the kettle.

" _Nothing,"_ he says. "You were at the party too. We had a few drinks, we made it home, he slept here. It was a late night. He freaked out when we woke up and noticed the time, and of course, he still had to get to the palace from here…"

"Uh-huh," says Babkak, and maybe Omar's just being paranoid, but he sounds skeptical. Then again, what's Omar actually worrying about? That the others will find out about him and Kassim? What's there to find out, really? Two adults having some fun, that's what they agreed on. It's not something he needs to _hide._

He still doesn't mention it, though.

Al and Babkak finally tire of the subject of Kassim's indiscretions when Omar serves the tea. They're happy to get out of the palace – even Al, who's only been back for about two days – and to see Omar, which puts a little answering glow of affection in his chest. Esther's able to join them around noon, and the three follow Omar in his errands for a few hours, mostly keeping out of his way and just giving him some much-appreciated company. As evening falls, Babkak has to go back to the palace to start cooking, and Aladdin, Esther, and Omar go out for dinner somewhere. Al admits he still has a fondness for street food even in comparison to what the royal chefs prepare, and Esther is fascinated by the whole thing, never having lived anywhere but in her family's villa or the palace her entire life. She wrinkles her nose at the food, at first, but a few bites in and she's declaring that she loves it through stuffed cheeks and wide eyes.

During the meal, Al tugs on Omar's arm and leans into his ear.

"I had a talk with the royal vizier yesterday," he says, low and confidential. "He's organized a meeting tomorrow with him and me and all the heads of staff. Apparently I can't be seen to be too demanding, so I can't order them to do anything for you, but hopefully, if one of them has an opening…"

The prospect makes Omar smile.

"Thanks, Al," he says, bumping their wrists together. "That's all I can ask of you, really."

"I just want you to feel comfortable with the rest of us, buddy," Aladdin sighs, turning back to his food but keeping his eyes on his friend. "We all want you back. If something like this never happens again, it'll still be too soon."

* * *

Omar doesn't earn enough as an errand boy to not have to dip into the money from Al now and then. He knows it certainly wouldn't be enough if he had to pay for rent or proper clothes. But it's a reassuring amount, which keeps him from stealing or feeling overly indebted to anyone. If he could earn at least this amount at the palace, surely it would mean that he wouldn't have to face being exiled again.

If he had a _position_ at the palace, he wouldn't have to face it again.


	6. Chapter 6

_When Kassim returns to their quarters from the library three days after the party, Babkak is sitting on one of the giant pouffes, apparently waiting for him. He stands as Kassim enters, arms folded over his chest and expression unreadable. Kassim's pace slows._

" _Kassim," Babkak says, in a flat voice, and tilts his head in the direction of his room. "I need a word with you." His tone and body language are unmistakably grim._

" _O – ka-ay," Kassim drawls, already on the back foot; but he follows where Babkak leads, striding off into his room and turning to wait for him inside the door, which he snaps shut as soon as Kassim is inside. Then he turns to Kassim – arms crossed once more – and studies him, not quite glowering, but hardly friendly, either. Kassim frowns down at him, bemused and increasingly on edge. "What's this about?" he eventually asks._

 _Babkak sighs._

" _Look," he says, "I don't want to sound like some kind of defensive older brother… But Omar's my friend. And you and I both know he's not exactly great at looking after himself."_

" _Omar?" Kassim repeats. "What's wrong with Omar?"_

" _I'll be blunt," Babkak huffs. "What are your intentions toward him?"_

" _My –_ intentions?" _Kassim repeats, punctuated with a laugh. "What are you talking about?"_

" _Don't play stupid," Babkak scoffs, "Late nights at his apartment? Come on. I know you've been sleeping together, we all know. After the party was just the least of it."_

 _Something seizes in Kassim's chest._

"' _All'?" he echoes. That's getting annoying: just repeating the bewildering things Babkak says._

" _Well, not_ all," _Babkak shrugs, "just, y'know. Me and Al. The people who matter."_

 _Kassim shrugs at that, stretching out his neck in discomfort, and finds himself mirroring Babkak by crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back just a little._

" _So?" he finally says. "We're adults, it's just – sex, we're allowed to do it if we want to."_

" _That's not what I'm talking about and you know it," Babkak growls._ "What _are your intentions toward him? I want to know."_

" _Why?" Kassim laughs, but Babkak's stern expression shuts down that line of argument._

" _I'm not gonna see him get hurt," he says, low and plain. "Least of all by you."_

 _Kassim draws back. "What's that supposed to mean?"_

" _You're his friend," says Babkak, "you're_ our _friend, being hurt by you is much worse than being hurt by some random stranger."_

" _I don't know what you're talking about," Kassim says, raising his hands in mock surrender, ready to leave the whole absurd conversation, but Babkak cuts him off._

" _Oh come on, Kassim, do you need me to spell it out?" he cries, dropping his arms to his sides. "You want me to prove I know? All right, he's in love with you! Got it?"_

 _The world, Kassim thinks, has ground to a halt. Surely everything has stopped in its movement, for just a moment, as his heart skips a beat or two._

 _Babkak is glaring as he continues, with the death blow already struck. "You can't just play around with him with that involved, even you can understand that!"_

 _Kassim feels frozen in place: feet stuck in quicksand, arms awkward and tight at his sides. That doesn't make sense_ at all. _It'd be wonderful, it'd be amazing, it'd be_ everything, _but it can't possibly make sense._

" _He's –" he tries to say; but the words feel forbidden, as if saying them would make them true, or horribly jinx the whole idea, Kassim doesn't know which would be worse. His scoff is shaky, nervous. "No he's not."_

 _Babkak rolls his eyes. "Seriously?" he says. "Of course he is. He has been for months, probably longer, and he just didn't know it. I love the boy, but he's not the brightest gem."_

" _He's not in love with me," Kassim insists, still trying to laugh at the idea even as it thrills him with a kind of joyous, floating fear. He forces himself to say it again, trying to wrap his head around the idea, dispel its charm._ "Omar – _is not in love with me."_

 _It looks like he's found Babkak's breaking point. The man glares at him for a moment, then tuts his mouth open, and steps closer, sharp and sure._

" _Okay," he snaps, "this whole 'playing dumb' routine has been very funny, but I'm gonna be honest with you: it's getting old fast."_

 _Kassim doesn't feel like laughing anymore. He crosses his arms._

" _I'm not playing dumb."_

 _Babkak shrugs. "Sure," he says. "Sure, course you're not. You've got no idea how mad Omar is for you, that sounds believable."_

" _I_ don't," _Kassim insists, "because he's_ not."

" _Of course not," Babkak says again, nodding, as his passive-aggression edges ever closer to plain aggression. "It's just a bit of fun between friends. Well let me ask you this, Mr. Fun: why is it that you started sleeping with him at exactly the same time you_ stopped _going out to steal things from the marketplace for kicks?"_

 _Kassim unfolds his arms and steps up to meet him._

" _Coincidence," he says firmly. "Thank you very much."_

" _You mean you're_ not _just banging him on the sly to try and replace the excitement of petty theft?" says Babkak, brows raised almost to his hairline. "Of course, that explains everything!"_

" _I'm_ not!" _says Kassim, balling his hands into fists at his sides. "Why would you think that?"_

" _Bit of a crazy coincidence, wouldn't you say?"_

" _No, I wouldn't!" Kassim cries. "I stopped stealing because the sultan fined us all and kicked Omar out of the palace for a month! Or are you forgetting that part?"_

" _And starting an affair with him, what, I'm gonna guess the same day? As soon as I left?" Babkak asks, violent with irony. "Seems like pretty good timing, to me."_

 _Kassim shoves his nose forward, growling down into Babkak's face, "You don't know what you're talking about," but it hardly deters Babkak, only making him puff himself up to reach Kassim._

"He's my friend," _he snarls._

" _What, and I'm not?" Kassim snaps._

" _Sometimes?" Babkak cries back, lashing out, ready to insult. "I don't think so!"_

" _Ex-_ cuse _me?"_

" _No friend of mine would be this selfish!" Babkak shouts. "You're taking advantage, and you're_ going _to hurt him!"_

" _I'm_ not _taking advantage! And I would never_ _hurt him!" Kassim shouts back, but then he's stepping back, instead of grabbing Babkak's arm or dragging him into a headlock. He swallows, and tries to rally himself, adding, "He's my friend too," but it comes out weaker than before, and Babkak looks both smug and disappointed, crossing his arms again and watching Kassim's retreat._

" _Sure," he drawls. "And you'd never hurt your friends."_

 _Kassim looks down at him, and the part of him that wants to shove, and throw punches, is swiftly dying under a sense of shame and fear that feels like a tightening ball of lead under his sternum. He shakes his head._

" _He's not in love with me," he says at last. "He's not. It's not possible."_

 _Babkak just glares back, lips pursed behind his beard._

" _You sure about that?"_

 _And Kassim – who has never run away from a fight in his life – turns on his heel and bursts out into the hall, marching past Omar's empty room and disappearing into his own to slam the doors behind him and pace for a while. Babkak watches him go, for once not trying to stop him, with a grave, almost world-weary disappointment drawing his features down. Eventually, he shakes his head, and closes his own doors on the hallway; sits down on his comfortable chair, at his opulent desk; and buries his face in his hands._

 _Sometimes, Babkak really hates being the smartest of the four._


	7. Chapter 7

In Omar's final week at his apartment, Babkak, Aladdin, and Kassim come over for breakfast, and to start planning how they'll get all of Omar's things back to the palace. It's still not that much, of course – the furniture all belongs to the landlord, after all – but he has gained a few bits and pieces since he left, which he'd rather keep his hands on than just throw away, even if the palace does have an abundance of _things_ he could replace them with.

They all feel the same way.

In the afternoon, Babkak and Al go back to the palace for work, while Kassim follows Omar on his errands, occasionally warranting a suspicious glance from a shopkeeper who recognizes him from before. He looks impressed at the coins Omar counts on the way home in the evening, as the sun sinks and finally drops below the horizon. He decides out loud that Omar should buy a better cloak: it may be Agrabah, but the winters are still cold.

When they get back to Omar's rooms, Kassim reaches for him almost before the door is closed behind them. He kisses Omar's neck without a word, Omar's hands clutching at his clothes in response, and walks him backward until he finds his back against the wall. Then –

Kassim breathes hard against Omar's neck. He holds Omar's waist between his hands. And he does nothing. He seems almost paralyzed, as if with fear, except Kassim's never been afraid in his life. Though Omar's practically half-hard already, there's no urgency to it, and he doesn't want to insist. Instead, he just stands there, back to the wall, staring over Kassim's shoulder. The man is usually so easy to read that finding him this reticent is off-putting, confusing, and not a little concerning.

For a long minute, Kassim doesn't move. Omar's hands remain fisted in his cloak for a while, before he slowly smooths them out, not wanting to break the heavy silence or the forbidding stillness that's come over them. At last, he cards his fingers through the fringe of hair at the nape of Kassim's neck, and it breaks whatever spell has been cast on them. Kassim all but flinches, and raises his face – eyes still lowered – just enough for Omar to kiss his cheek, then the corner of his mouth.

The hint is enough. Kassim presses Omar against the wall and kisses his mouth, slow and insistent, hands fisted in the front of Omar's shirt. It's weird, and confusing, and Kassim is off, somehow, tense and over-certain, but Omar is perfectly happy to reciprocate. He realizes he's stopped finding it weird that he recognizes the taste of Kassim's mouth, bitter and warm, and the way his tongue will inevitably swipe against Omar's, quick at first, then in longer, deeper strokes. Now, it just feels reassuring, a familiarity he shouldn't have been granted, that he fears sullying with too much sentiment, the wrong kind of attachment.

He still enjoys the kissing, though.

Eventually, Omar pulls himself together for a fraction of a second – just enough to form a coherent plan in his mind, but not long enough to overthink it – and he tilts his chin away, stopping Kassim's kisses long enough to slip off his cloak and nudge him over to the couch. Kassim's eyes dart, but he follows where Omar directs him, lowering him to the cushions, where Omar is glad the sun has set and the lamps aren't on so he can convince himself he isn't imagining the cracked-open expression on Kassim's face, turned up to him, honest and wanting. He whispers for Kassim to lie down, then turns him onto his side and slides in behind him, sticking one arm awkwardly out over their heads and wrapping the other around Kassim's waist. There is a moment's hesitation from Kassim; then his arm raises, and his hand comes up to touch Omar's against his chest, fingertip by fingertip, against the back of his hand. Skimming lightly over the long bones, Kassim touches his knuckles, then moves down to cradle his slim wrist. When Omar twitches his own fingers in response, he finds Kassim's hooking into them, one after another, and grasps them hard.

He remembers:

 _Three pairs of manacled wrists;_

 _The beautiful patterned floor of the palace;_

 _Babkak and Kassim's shoulders by each of his;_

And Kassim's rough fingers, his broad hand, covering Omar's. A grip he felt for days.

They nearly fall asleep like that. After ten minutes, though, Kassim murmurs something about needing to get to the palace, and not wanting a repeat of last time. Omar thinks, _Last time was different_. He thinks, _Last time we had sex_. He thinks, _What makes these two times the same?_

Still, he lets Kassim go, rising awkwardly from the couch and not watching as Kassim does the same. Before they part, Kassim bends down to grab his cloak, and leaves a lingering kiss on Omar's cheek.

* * *

That night, to Omar's surprise, he sleeps extraordinarily well.

* * *

"It's not easy," Kassim says one afternoon, three days later, as he trails along with Omar, who's hauling a sack of grain across the marketplace for a fee. "Not stealing, I mean."

"I know the feeling," Omar grunts. "And I didn't even like it very much."

"It's just," Kassim grimaces – "you can't stop seeing it. You know?"

"I know," Omar sighs. He nods to one side. "Like that guy right there."

"Eugh, he'd be _so_ easy," Kassim replies. "Purse just hanging out like that, he wouldn't notice at all. And that lady over there, she's new to the area, we could swindle her without even thinking about it. Even faster with Babkak or Al around. You can't break it off." He looks over at Omar, and gets an expression halfway between confusion and agreement, a little turned down at the edges. "You know," he explains – "the little voice in your head that just says – 'take it. You don't know when you're going to get an opportunity like this again.' That stall there, with the pears. The wheat in front of that shop. That cloth there. I can't stop seeing them. And I can't stop – that stupid voice… It says, 'Just take it. Do it, no one'll see. I bet you could do it, and you might need it tomorrow'…"

He goes quiet, and Omar doesn't know how to respond. He doesn't have that voice, but then again, he never lived the streets as long as the others. The habits are ingrained, but he's been happy to watch those instincts slip away in the face of palace life, his new job, his life in the apartment. He wonders if Babkak and Aladdin hear the same thing; he's not sure that they do. He wonders what it is about Kassim that means he can't stop hearing it.

When they reach the house Omar's been looking for, Kassim knocks for him, and an old landlady answers. They tramp up the stairs to deliver the goods to a woman on the second floor, with three tiny kids hanging around her ankles. She thanks them with a slightly tired smile, and a few copper coins each, on top of what her wife paid Omar when she gave him the order. Kassim stares at the coins in his palm, as if they are incomprehensible to him, and they both head back down to the street in silence.

"Maybe you'll never be able to stop hearing it," says Omar, as they wander down the hillside. He glances over at Kassim, who's giving him an affronted, bewildered look.

"Thanks, Omar," Kassim drawls, making him balk.

"Not like that!" Omar cries. "I just mean – maybe you don't _have_ to break it off. Maybe you'll always hear it. You just don't have to do what it says."

Kassim scowls, and shoves his hands in his pockets.

"Some help you are," he grumbles, so Omar sighs and moves closer to him as he walks, bumping him in the arm with his wrist.

"You're not listening," he says. "You spent years surviving because of that voice. You don't have to feel bad if you keep hearing it."

"I _don't,"_ Kassim mutters, petulantly, so Omar hits him in the arm again, rather more of a punch this time.

"It's what you _do_ with that voice, Kassim," he says. "You can't help your instincts. But you know it might hurt the rest of us, so you've stopped doing what it says. That's got the same effect on the world as if you didn't hear it. It's good enough."

Kassim sighs, raising his eyes to the sky, already bleeding towards dusk.

"It's _boring,"_ he says, not making a single effort not to sound exasperated and perplexed. "I want to _do_ something. I want to _run_ from something, I want to _fight_ someone. Instead I'm just stuck in meetings and the library all day, especially now that Al's back from his honeymoon. And maybe it'd be bearable if I didn't hear this stupid _voice_ all the time, remindingme about what I can't do."

Omar has no solution to that. In the silence that follows, Kassim, spits out another sigh.

"There's no solution," he shrugs. "But thanks for listening."

Omar's voice is faint and helpless when he replies.

"Any time."

* * *

When they part, it's outside Omar's building, as Omar waits for an embrace that never comes. Kassim just claps him on the arm, and holds his breath moment, before marching away with a "See you later."

Omar makes his way inside as soon as he can, for no other reason than to avoid watching Kassim leave.

* * *

Kassim doesn't visit by himself for the rest of the week. He doesn't have sex with Omar again, doesn't kiss him, barely touches him. Something has changed, that much is obvious, but what it is, Omar is helpless to discover. Instead, he goes about his business pretending it's normal, and failing to convince himself that he hasn't shown too much of what he really feels, hasn't imposed something horribly unwanted and unreciprocated on his friend.

But Kassim _is_ there when the whole gang from the palace come down to help pack and clean the apartment the day before he gets to finally move back to the palace. Babkak, Al, and Kassim arrive together, followed by Jasmine, Esther, Tasnim, and Jamila, though out of them it's only Jamila who's any use with the cleaning. When evening falls, Babkak suggests that one of them stay over to help move all Omar's things early in the morning, but only Esther volunteers, and Tasnim has to remind her that they've got morning duties that will clash. Babkak himself needs to be up in the kitchens at dawn, and Al and Jasmine aren't allowed to sleep outside the palace, then Babkak then glares at Kassim for some reason, but he only gets a bewildered frown in response. When Omar tries to protest that he can do it on his own, Babkak actually shoves Kassim in the arm until he gives in and agrees to stay when the other trail out with farewells made excited by how soon it will be when they see each other again.

Kassim offers to sleep on the couch. He doesn't – Omar gives him a bewildered, hurt look, and he crumbles almost immediately – but he still offers. It stings Omar, like some kind of rejection, even though he was never asking anything in the first place. The very idea seems wrong, though, especially considering that even before they had sex – before the palace and riches – they were well used to curling up together on tiny mattresses and makeshift beds, sometimes but not always with the others.

They drink tea, and pack away all but the essentials for the night in three bags and one basket in the front room. It's more than what Omar left with: his own belongings this time, things bought from the marketplace with Al's money when he first moved or with his own earnings later on. It makes Omar feel somehow tangible and real, like he's changed and made an impact and done more in the weeks he's been away than in the months beforehand at the palace.

It's late when Omar and Kassim go to sleep at either edge of the bed, facing away from each other, by some kind of silent, mutual agreement. Something happens, however, during the night, without their making any decision about it, and when Omar wakes up, he's in the middle of the bed, curled up with Kassim's shoulder and side pressed against his back, close and comfortable. Half-asleep – possibly woken by Omar's stirring – Kassim shuffles around and tucks his arm around Omar's waist, cheek scratchy and warm against the top of his spine. Then he wakes fully, and his arm goes tense, and Omar must panic, because it's the only explanation he has for his mind wiping blank and his body turning over and slipping on top of Kassim's as he starts kissing his neck, rough with stubble.

Kassim doesn't object. What's more, his head immediately tips back to open up more skin for Omar to explore, one hand shooting up to hold him in place, fingers tense at the back of Omar's neck.

"Please can we –" Omar breathes against Kassim's skin, not brave enough to look him in the eye and ask _Please can we have sex again?_ , let alone _Why have you stopped kissing me when we're alone?_ He buries the end of the sentence in licking at Kassim's pulse point, losing himself in the warmth and taste, and he can't tell how long it takes for Kassim to reply.

"Yes," is what he finally breathes out, like a sigh of relief. "Yes, _yes –_ "

"What do you want?" Omar asks, already shoving at Kassim's clothes, pushing his shirt up so he can duck down and kiss the swell of his pectoral, his nipple, his ribs.

"Anything," Kassim pants, "anything you want –"

"Heck, Kassim, I just woke up, I'm not _thinking –"_

At last, Kassim reaches down and grabs two fistfuls of Omar's shirt, hauling him up from the attention he's lavishing on Kassim's muscled chest and kissing him full on the mouth, tongue flat and firm. One hand cards through Omar's thick hair, gripping and releasing, and when Kassim stops kissing him, he takes a long moment to look up at Omar, as if trying to find something, though what it is, Omar's at a loss to say. For his part, he feels almost trapped in Kassim's gaze, in perhaps the best way possible, perfectly happy to comply with whatever he suggests.

"Fuck me."

It makes Omar start.

"What?"

"You heard me," says Kassim, with a defiant twitch of an eyebrow.

"You mean –"

Omar can't say it, but at least Kassim understands.

"Yes."

"In the –"

Kassim rolls his eyes.

" _Yes,_ Omar, gosh, what are you, twelve?"

"I should hope not," Omar mutters, already bending down to kiss Kassim again. He slides one hand down, past the flat of Kassim's abdominals and under his pants, over the ridges of his hipbone. Kassim hums into his mouth in appreciation, as his hands release Omar's shirt and smooth down and up, under the fabric and dipping into the curve at the small of his back. Omar reaches lower, finds Kassim's prick not quite soft anymore, and sets about blindly fumbling and stroking him to hardness. Against his mouth, Kassim's breath catches once or twice, but he just barely breaks the kiss to let it happen, hands not leaving their firm caress on Omar's back.

At last, Omar gets a word in, tilting his head aside to stop Kassim's kisses and asking, "How?" under his breath, hoping Kassim will understand his full intent. Lucky for him, the man does sometimes prove how clever he really is.

"Get the oil," he breathes, "the lamp oil."

"Oh, for – it's already packed!" Omar complains, and Kassim laughs at his petty tone.

"Well, if I knew how eager you were going to be in the morning –"

He cuts himself off at that, and Omar is glad for it, because if he thinks about the morning, he'll think about last night, and if he thinks about last night, he'll think about going to bed well apart under the covers, and Kassim offering to sleep on the couch, and these things are unconscionable in a moment like this. As if in apology for mentioning it, Kassim pushes his hand up under Omar's shirt to reach between his shoulder blades, and pulls him back in for another kiss.

"Go and get it," he finally says, voice gravelly and low, and licks his lips. "Give me a minute to clean up."

It takes a split second for Omar to understand; and then he's battling a full-body shudder at the very idea, at all it contains, the implications of what comes after. He climbs off of Kassim – kisses him again – shuffles backwards out from the covers and off the bed – kisses him _again_ – and finally stumbles out of the room, rushing straight to the front door and opening it just long enough to haul in the bucket of fresh water waiting there so he can all but throw it across the room, drop it in the bedroom, and click the door shut behind him. He takes a moment to compose himself, burying his face in his hands and breathing deep and slow; then he strips off his shirt and pants, stuffing them in one bag in almost the same movement as he reaches for another, plunging his arm into the mess and digging around for the little bottle. He hesitates over whether to strip his underwear too – fiddles at the waistband for a solid ten seconds before finally shucking them off – then hovers in front of the bedroom door, stark naked, with far too much time to think.

After a long thirty seconds of getting colder and colder, toes curling against the floor, arms squeezing in for warmth, he knocks three times, quick and soft, and calls out, "Kassim?"

There is silence for a heart-stopping second; then Kassim's muffled voice says, "Come in," and Omar can't let himself think before he shoves at the handle and steps inside, snapping the door shut again behind him. Kassim is sitting on the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped together, just looking up from where he's clearly been leaning his head against them. Omar looks – because of course he does, because he's embarrassing like that sometimes, because he _has to_ – and sees that at least Kassim is still half-hard between his legs. His breaths kick up a notch.

Before he has time to do something stupid and obvious, like hold up the bottle and say "Got it!", Kassim is surging to his feet and stepping up to kiss Omar hard, arms wrapping around his middle. Omar nearly drops the oil in surprise, and then distraction, but he manages to keep his hand under control as Kassim draws him slowly forwards, step by step, as he backs towards the bed. Kassim's mouth goes to Omar's neck and shoulder, the fringe of his chest, and only after a long moment of open-mouthed enjoyment does Omar gather himself enough to speak.

"Do you want to –" he starts, then Kassim does something with his tongue and Omar's nipple, and he loses the trail of thought completely, has to construct a whole new one. "Who do you want to –"

"You," Kassim breathes against Omar's skin. "You, you –" He cuts himself off, kisses Omar's chest again, and sinks down, climbing backwards onto the mattress and dragging Omar with him. At last, he kisses Omar once more on the lips, and shifts into the middle of the bed, leaning back on his elbows and bending his knees, feet flat on the bed, legs open in an inviting, immodest spread.

Omar doesn't have words. He's glad Kassim isn't insisting on any. It feels weird not to say anything, but really, there's nothing he _can_ say, not when he's kneeling between Kassim's feet and uncorking a bottle of oil, pouring some out in his hand, spreading it over his fingers. He keeps the bottle in his left hand, dangling between his fingers as he shuffles closer and hooks his hand over Kassim's hip, slick right hand at the ready. He at last meets Kassim's eye.

"You'll tell me if I'm hurting you," he says, and Kassim nods, swallowing.

"Of course," he says, and his voice is already hoarse with desire, thrilling all the way down Omar's spine.

Omar takes his time. He doesn't know why, but everything about this feels momentous: today, he moves back to the palace; today, Kassim stopped not-kissing him; today, they start off the morning like _this,_ with Kassim adjusting his weight on his elbows and biting his lip as Omar massages back and forth with warm, oiled fingertips around his hole. Omar has just enough forethought to whisper a warning, which Kassim duly sighs to, before he's pressing in with one finger, into a hotness and tightness that pulls a sound of anticipation from his chest. Stroking in and out, as Kassim tips his head back and draws his knees closer, Omar kisses the inside of Kassim's thigh so temptingly close to his face, skirting his lips along the edge of his knee. Kassim trembles very faintly at that; his whole body looks like he's drawn as tight as a bowstring, ready to snap or come raveling undone.

"Second finger," Omar eventually gets to whisper, pouring out a little more oil as Kassim nods his assent, and finally drops down off his elbows and onto his back, head missing the pillows. He groans a bit through gritted teeth as Omar pushes back in with two fingers this time, and Omar slows, easing in, just resting his cheekbone against Kassim's leg. The more he works, the more wound-up Kassim gets, eyes falling shut, twitching every now and then when Omar spreads his fingers, or pushes in as deep as he can, or presses his thumb into the clean skin of his perineum. By the time Omar adds a third finger, Kassim's legs are tense and shaking, drawn so far back that only his toes are touching the bed now, and even then only at irregular intervals. Finally, just as Omar's about to ask for what must be the thousandth time if he's still okay, Kassim lets out a sudden grunt, and pokes Omar with his foot.

"Stop – stop," he blurts out, opening his eyes, and Omar, shocked into more than his lust-hazy awareness, does precisely as he's told. "Out, get out," Kassim sighs, "I need to move."

"Move how?" says Omar, complying anyway, and in a few, stilted movements, Kassim is heaving himself up on his elbows, and grabbing the back of Omar's neck. He mutters "First this," just moments before he kisses him, messy and deep, then he's swiping his thumb over the stubble over Omar's jaw and pulling away, pushing up and around until he's on his hands and knees in front of Omar, sculpted thighs tense and tucked under him, the broad landscape of his back – spine, shoulder blades, the lines of muscles – spreading out as Kassim lowers himself onto his elbows, forehead resting on the sheets, as he says, low and breathless:

"Keep going."

Omar is trying very hard not to say something sappy: something about how very much he loves Kassim in this moment, something that he could shrug off as lust and enthusiasm but which would give far too much away for his own good. Instead, he presses kisses to the crease of Kassim's thigh, the swell of his backside, the base of his spine, and adds a little more spread to his cheeks with one hand as he goes back to work with the other. Kassim groans almost immediately, possibly at the new angle, but after a few more minutes, he's shaking his head on his arms and growling, _"More,"_ and Omar's in no position to deny him. He spreads his fingers, pushes deeper, and something caught between a sob and a shout crawls its way out of Kassim's throat.

"More," he's groaning, and again, _"more,_ Omar, _come on –"_

"You mean –" Omar starts, but Kassim cuts him off.

"Yes, _yes,_ I mean put your dick in me, God, do I need to spell it out –"

Omar laughs, even as he pulls out his fingers and wipes them on the sheet. "Okay, okay," he grins, "I get the point!"

"Do you?" Kassim gripes from the pillows, craning his neck to look around as Omar pours more oil into his hand. "Because I'm feeling a distinct lack of getting fucked back there –"

"Shut _up,_ Kassim!" Omar laughs, breathless and giddy, as he corks the bottle and strokes himself quickly to full hardness, slicking himself, free hand tossing the oil aside so he can smooth his palm over Kassim's hip, and the sweat gathering at the small of his back, dipping around his waist. "You ready?"

" _Omar!"_

He cackles again, a hasty laugh, and kneels forward, lining himself up.

"Tell me," he says, composing himself, even as Kassim's head drops forward again, hair messy with sweat and sleep, shoulders lurching with his breath. "If I'm hurting you."

"Fuck, Omar, get on with it," Kassim sighs in response. "Just go slow – I'll tell you, just go slow –"

The words get lost in a long, low, strained noise as Omar finally pushes in, trying very hard to keep his hips steady even as his eyelids flutter shut, jaw hanging open without any sound because the _pressure,_ and the _heat,_ and this is _Kassim_ he's slowly pushing into, Kassim who is clearly making every effort to relax for him, and is panting and moaning into the sheets, just for him, because of him. Omar stops halfway – or rather, is stopped – and spends a minute just rocking into him, the olive skin of his hands looking darker against Kassim's back and hips. It's taking a lot of effort for him to regulate his breathing.

"How's that?" he eventually gasps out; but Kassim makes no reply except to nod and keep panting into the mattress, neck at what looks like a very uncomfortable angle, and to throw his right arm behind him, hand grasping at nothing until Omar gets the hint and grabs it back. Kassim's fingers are like a vice around his. The extra leverage helps him press a little deeper, and what Omar can only describe as a whine escapes Kassim's throat.

Words fail him again. He can't say anything, so Omar just keeps rolling his hips, pushing much more than he pulls, until at last, _at last,_ he bottoms out, hips pressed flush to Kassim's backside, their thighs together in two long lines. Kassim reacts to that, at least – releases Omar's hand and arches his back like a cat, pushing himself up on both hands and letting out a long, shaky breath – and Omar takes the opportunity to lean forward and wrap his arms around Kassim's waist, vision blurring with sensation. He leaves a messy, open-mouthed kiss between Kassim's shoulder blades, and for some reason, it's this more than anything else that makes Kassim gasp out a broken sound, his whole body shaking in Omar's grip, the movement jostling them where they're connected and making a twin moan escape from each of them. Omar's is muffled in Kassim's back, but Kassim's seems to fill the room with all the filthy, luxurious pleasure to which it speaks.

"You okay?" Omar has to ask, because hurting Kassim is one of the things most inimical to his being. Kassim's only response is to arch his spine even further, left hand joining Omar's on his hip as he pushes back and makes Omar's breath come rushing out.

"Don't you _dare_ stop," he growls, and that's more than enough to keep Omar going, leaning over Kassim's back and thrusting, hard, so that Kassim drops back onto both hands.

"Like that?" he asks, breathless with it, and Kassim almost laughs in response.

"Like that," he gasps, and moans when Omar does it again, picking up a rhythm. "Oh, God, like that…"

Omar is biting his lip, almost hard enough, it feels, to split the skin, trying to concentrate and keep himself steady amongst the overwhelming barrage of sensations. There's the tightness of Kassim, the warmth and slide; and there's the skin of his hips under Omar's hands, his thighs tensing and releasing against Omar's legs, his heavy breaths and blissed-out noises providing the gorgeous accompaniment to the sounds of skin on skin. Omar's toes are curling against the sheets, and he feels pleasure, desire, lust, and love thrilling down his spine and in his chest at irregular intervals, making him shiver. He leans closer over Kassim's back – the angle worse, the nearness exhilarating – and sighs a sound into the thick air between them, hands groping for a better hold on Kassim's chest, stroking his ribs, skirting a nipple. The touch makes Kassim twitch again, and thrust back again, and Omar nearly shouts at that.

"Oh _Jesus,"_ he grits out, squeezing shut his eyes, and he feels Kassim laugh in every part where they're in contact.

"Jesus?" he repeats, breathlessly laughing, tilting his head just enough to send a glancing, mischievous look back at Omar. "You've been – hanging around too many Christians again –"

The words – the very incongruity of them, considering where they are and what they're doing – shocks a full-bodied laugh out of Omar, and stills his hips as he almost collapses over Kassim's back, face creased with mirth, cackling. He wraps his arms around Kassim's middle, affection and lust skirmishing behind his breastbone, and very gradually starts to thrust again, and regain his rhythm.

"I can't believe –" he gasps, then tries another tactic. "What's wrong with that?"

He knows Kassim is grinning, huge and bright as always, even without seeing it, can hear the delight in his voice and feel it in his body.

"Nothing's _wrong_ with it," he laughs back. "It's just – weird to hear that name in your mouth – _ugh –_ especially when there's a whole other name you're – supposed to be shouting at a time like this –"

Another burst of laughter tears out of Omar, involuntary and almost as wild as Kassim. He presses his face to Kassim's back, shaking his head, and finally gives in to his impulses, pulling out of Kassim even as the man groans and protests.

"I need to kiss you," he explains through his laughter, tugging at Kassim's side to make him turn over and sit back so Omar can kneel between his legs and press their mouths together, wet and off balance. Kassim moans at that, and Omar is faintly aware that he's stroking himself between them, body surging with it, reaching without meaning to for any part of Omar that he can touch.

" _Kassim,"_ Omar breathes against the man's lips between kisses, and he feels Kassim smiling, teasing and smug.

"That's better," he murmurs, and kisses Omar again, and adds: "Do it again."

Omar takes another kiss, and crawls forward to press Kassim down towards the bed, and tries to sound extra wanton as he moans, _"Kassi-im."_ It makes the man gasp and buckle even as he laughs, dropping to one elbow while his free hand comes up to cradle Omar's jaw, angling him for another kiss.

"Again," he says, firmer this time, and once more, Omar pushes forward with another kiss, sinking onto his elbows and lying almost on top of Kassim as he falls back against the mattress, Omar between his legs.

" _Kassim."_

He doesn't bother to ask. Kassim is already drawing his legs up, dutifully helping Omar hook the left over his shoulder and dragging his right heel against Omar's knee, the back of his thigh, the swell of his butt. He's opening himself up, a silent invitation; just as silently, Omar accepts, and reaches down to guide himself back into the tight, straining heat of him, pulling a long, low groan out of both of them. When Omar looks up, he sees that Kassim's eyes are closed, and they squeeze when Omar gets his hand under Kassim's right knee, urging his leg further back, opening him up even more. Kassim's mouth drops open around a breathless cry as Omar pulls out, nearly to the tip; the cry is less breathless when Omar pushes back in. Once he's started, he feels like he can't stop, and though it takes all his self-control, he keeps teasing Kassim, drawing the act out to an excruciating pace until it's all Kassim can do to twist his fingers in Omar's hair and, amidst a strangled sound, urge him to go "Faster, for fuck's sake –", and "Come _on,_ Omar – don't make me beg for it – Omar, _Omar –"_

Omar, of course, is powerless to deny him.

Picking up the pace, swift and sudden, jolts a shout out of Kassim, followed by a longer, louder cry in which the word "Yes" seems to be buried. Kassim's breath heaves under Omar, and one of his hands goes straight to his own prick as Omar kisses him again, entirely uncoordinated, mouths at his rough jaw and neck, pants against the tender skin over his collarbone as he lets his hips and legs do all the work.

"I want –" Kassim tries – cuts himself off with a fractured groan and his arching neck – "I'd want – to do this to you –"

Omar kisses him for that alone, thrusting closer, harder, stronger, and Kassim moans into his mouth. His hair is a mess, sticking up in odd places, damp and gone a darker shade.

"You're not just skin and bone, are you?" he pants, sounding almost surprised, and at last he meets Omar's eye, so close it's almost frightening.

"Well, my job," Omar forces out between gasping breaths – "makes me run across – the city all day – I should hope I'm not – _oh,_ I'd hope I've got so— _o-oh –"_

The trail of thought is gone already, as he tosses his head, overcome. For his part, Kassim's cries are pitching up again, high whines tearing out of his throat as the sweat prickling over Omar's skin starts to gather, in concert with the gleam on Kassim's chest.

"Oh _fuck_ if I could do this to you," Kassim breathes out – "could you imagine, would you want that –"

"Yes, _yes,"_ Omar babbles into his skin, and he can imagine it all too well, bent double under Kassim's burly chest, the snap of his slim and skillful hips, his sculpted arms, the scrape of stubble, the way his eyes would shine, wide and bright, as they do with adrenaline and excitement and adventure, all for him –

Kassim is shouting now – "A- _ah, fuck,_ Omar –!" and going more tense than ever, tugging at himself with everything he has – "Oh, fuck, Omar, now, now – I'm nearly – I'm going to –"

With the last ounce of sanity he has left, Omar surges forward to kiss him, almost up on his knees again, driving in with everything he has. A moment later, Kassim's whole expression goes wide and shocked, and he strains his neck, whole body arching and jerking beneath Omar as he shouts to the ceiling, wordless and wild, then forming the disjointed sounds of Omar's name. It's all Omar can do to slow his pace and drink in the sight.

At last, Kassim collapses back to the bed, jumpy and trembling, breath coming in quick, errant gasps. Omar starts to say "Should I stop –" but Kassim is already pulling him in by the shoulders and waist, breathing "Don't you dare," and Omar knows it won't take very long. He takes the kisses Kassim gives him, eases off on his slackening legs, slips down on his own knees to press in deep, then with quick, shallow thrusts, and his breath is searing in his lungs, and if this is the last time they ever do this he's going to hate them both forever –

Omar finishes with Kassim's name on his tongue, Kassim's skin under his lips, Kassim's body shuddering in time with his. He feels too warm for first thing in the morning, but the cause makes it worth it. They're both filthy, with sweat and come and a little bit of grime, and will need a proper bath when they get to the palace, but by Allah, the cause makes it worth it.

It takes a long, hazy minute for Omar to recover, twitching and moaning out little noises with every other breath. When he finally does, he cannot meet Kassim's eye. Instead, he looks down, and pulls out with infinite caution, and even though his own limbs feel like water, he helps to ease Kassim's legs down from around his ears, since the man himself appears to have lost all control over his own muscles. Then he lets himself collapse next to him, flopping down onto the pillows, dazed and exhausted. Fumbling, not looking, Kassim reaches out and twines Omar's hand into his own, saying nothing, only breathing hard and gradually less and less fast.

They lie like that for a minute or two, dozing off, calm and sated and warm, and away from the winter chill and any reminder of the outside world, their lives, their responsibilities. Then:

"Why did we do this," Kassim mumbles, "when I'm meant to help you _carry things_ today?"

Omar can't help but chuckle at that.

"You'll be fine," he says, squeezing Kassim's hand, and the man whips his head around on the pillow to glare at him.

"I'm not going to be walking straight for a _week,"_ he says, like it's an accusation, and _that_ makes Omar let out a full-blown cackle, as he rolls onto his side towards Kassim and buries his face in his shoulder. "I'm not kidding!" Kassim cries over him, even though Omar can hear the smile in his voice, and his free hand is already coming up to scrape against Omar's jaw. "And you're expecting me to carry half your things all the way to the palace?!"

"You asked!" Omar laughs into Kassim's neck. "You _wanted_ me to, maybe you should've thought ahead a little!"

"Yeah, well how was I supposed to know you were going to be any good at it?" Kassim grumbles, at the same time as he tugs Omar's hand a little closer, and turns a little more towards him, stroking over Omar's shoulder and burying his fingers in his hair, all matted from sweat and sleep. Their legs are piled together, their breaths and body heat intermingling, and that's the end of that discussion, as Kassim kisses Omar's forehead and the crest of his cheekbone.

Of course, it cannot last. In the end, it's Omar who pulls Kassim's knuckles to his lips, then lets go, trying hard to disguise his reluctance. He mumbles something about feeling gross, and gets the water and a fresh rag, and slides his lips over Kassim's, warm and lazy. He has to argue with himself to pull away, but pull away he does, followed by a contented, tragic sigh from Kassim.

They clean up, slow and graceless. They strip the bed, and dress, and pack the last of Omar's things. Then all they need to do is grab the bags, and return the key to the landlord. Once they're up, they don't mention the sex, or the kissing, or the cuddling, at all; but Kassim slings his arm around Omar's shoulders as they approach the palace, practically crowing with joy, and at least that's a start.


	8. Chapter 8

The gang throws a party on Omar's first day back in the palace. It's a much more modest affair than Al's returning party, which is to be expected, and frankly what Omar would prefer: just the four of them, and the four women, not quite matching pairs. Omar's hardly put his bags down in his room before Esther comes running through the doors practically shrieking with joy, and sweeps him up in a huge hug before dragging him down the hall. The others have picked out a little unused room full of squashy furniture and few flat surfaces, so the drinks and food Babkak's swiped have been set out on the floor and everyone crowds around, reaching over each other to get at the nibbles. Everyone is happy to see Omar: they hug him, hold his arms, pull him over to them and ask questions, offer him tea and wine. Esther, Tasnim, and Babkak all kiss his cheeks, sloppy and joyous, and halfway through the night, amidst all the chatter, Omar finds himself sitting against a couch with Kassim's breath warm and steady on his neck, arms wrapped around Omar's waist as if perfectly happy to never let go.

They call it quits when the tea and hummus run out. Aladdin and Jasmine give Omar one last, big hug before they all go back to their rooms, Esther and Tasnim holding hands, Jamila with a wink at Babkak, Al and Jasmine as close as can be. Omar, Babkak, and Kassim go back to their quarters chatting and laughing, and constantly in contact: a linked arm there, a fist bump there, a slap on the back in between. It's not so late when Omar gets to his room that he can't set out his belongings at last: some things go back to their old places, while others are new, and make the room feel curiously more like home. The jug and bowls, the wall hangings, a few bits of new clothes, lend a familiar, homely color to the splendor, and the blanket from Al still has pride of place on the bed, though it takes up a lot less space on this one than the one in the apartment. When Omar finally changes into loose sleeping clothes and wriggles in under the luxurious covers, it is with a heart light and a head just faintly buzzing from a cup or two of wine drunk over the night.

Which is why the nightmare that comes hits him so alarmingly hard.

In his dream, Omar is running from the guards in the marketplace, the alleyways a maze he no longer recognizes. When he bursts out into a courtyard, it's frighteningly empty, abandoned stalls and baskets pushed up against the walls as if trying to hide from the terror that's chasing him. He recognizes the feeling of being cornered, trapped, with the only escape route blocked by a guard and a flashing sword. Omar trips over his own feet, the world tilting on an unpredictable axis, and as the tramp of boots, and the creak of leather, and the clink of threatening metal, get closer, he stumbles and falls back too far, the sounds of the guards soaking into the throng of the marketplace, bustling all at once, and Omar finds himself –

He finds himself weak with hunger, swaddled in his only clothes, threadbare all of a sudden, as he holds trembling arms up to an indifferent crowd for money, food, water; anything, just to help him live. He sees Babkak in the crowd, and tries to call out, but his voice is hoarse and useless, and he walks past, oblivious. Then Kassim walks past, too close not to hear him cry, but still ignoring him. Al is next, passing directly by without once looking down, indifferent. Omar can feel his arms growing heavy and tired, rotting away into skin and bone, as his friends hurry past, unfeeling, uncaring. Omar wants to cry, but he keeps shouting instead, trying to be heard – "Babkak! Kassim! Al, please!" – but there is no relief, no happy end to his suffering, the what would have been if not for the most fortuitous of circumstances. He feels his body breaking, crumbling to the ground, alone, useless, and dying –

" _Omar, wake up!"_

He does, with a start, and a wet gasp. He is in his own bed, huge and comfortable, in the palace. He is warm, and safe; and on either side of him, Babkak and Kassim are sitting on the bed, holding his hand and pressing his shoulder. Reflexively, Omar grasps at them, fingers flexing, as he blinks back tears and gulps in searing breaths, heart hammering almost painfully at his ribs.

"You were talking in your sleep," Babkak explains from his right hand, as they both lean closer, touching him, grounding him, and even that kind sound makes Omar flinch when he looks at him.

"You were shouting our names," Kassim goes on, to his left, making Omar's head whip back around. Omar looks at them both, nearly crying, mouth wide, eyes dark and frightened. One of them must have brought in a lamp, for there's a soft, warm glow over everything, throwing out feeble shadows.

Omar swallows.

"I was afraid," he says, trying to sit up. "I was trapped, and then I was begging, and you couldn't hear me – you wouldn't help –"

The memory of his friends' indifferent faces makes him sob and fall back onto the pillows, as he squeezes shut his eyes and bites his lip trying to blot out the terror and pain. His heart is still racing, and Babkak and Kassim are moving ever closer, holding his hands, wrists, arms, touching his cheeks and shoulders.

"It was just a dream," says Babkak, with a calm, quiet air. "Just a nightmare, nothing more."

"We would _never_ abandon you," adds Kassim. His rough fingers push between Omar's own, interlocking and squeezing. "Never."

Omar is unable to respond through his heaving chest, lungs and heart working too hard for nothing: he only gulps, and nods, and sobs again, the sound fractured and too large for how small he feels. There are tears prickling at his eyes, and running hot and stinging down his temples and into his hair, and he cannot stop them.

"Water," Babkak says to Kassim, who nods, and untwines his hands from Omar's, hurrying off the bed. Babkak immediately turns back to Omar, taking up the empty hand in his own and holding him tight. _"Hush,_ Omar," he soothes, "it's going to be all right. You're safe right here. Come on, sit up – sit up…"

He digs one hand under Omar's shoulder, and – with little help from the crying man – heaves him up and shifts closer to support him, one arm around his shoulders, the other hand still holding Omar's. The movement surges through Omar, like he's waking up again, and he blinks into the different view as his crying finally starts to slow.

"There's none left!" Kassim snaps from across the room, rifling through Omar's dresser.

"My room," Babkak orders, perfunctory and clear. "The jug on the table, I know it's fresh."

Kassim sprints out through the open door, and Babkak pulls Omar's head down onto his shoulder and hushes him, rocks him slightly, smooths his hair back from his face and strokes his cheek with his thumb.

"You're all right, Omar," he murmurs, as Omar can do nothing but be calmed, hiccupping his way through his pounding heartbeat. "You're okay. We're right here, we'd never leave you, never let you get hurt…"

In another moment, Kassim is back, with a glass pitcher and an ornate cup in his hands. He goes straight back to the bed, clambering onto it despite his full hands, and pours out a cup of water, leaving the jug steadied by the curl of his leg.

"Here," he says, holding the cup to Omar's lips and supporting his back with his free hand, "drink this."

With quivering fingers, Omar brings both hands up to join Kassim's on the cup, and carefully, he tilts it back, sipping and swallowing between his intermittent gasps. Neither Babkak nor Kassim shy away from him, with Babkak's arms holding him up, and Kassim's hand keeping the cup steady. They've looked after each other through dysentery and broken bones and all kinds of horrors before, after all, and a nightmare – even one as big as this – holds little power against them. As Omar drinks more water, he feels his body finally starting to calm, letting him drink more, letting him calm more. He finishes the first cup, and Kassim's hand leaves his back just long enough to pour out another before he's close again, touching, soothing, and warm. Omar drinks the next cupful in one, long draught.

"There," Babkak sighs. "Feel any better?"

Omar nods, swallowing, and finally looks properly at his friends. Neither of them are properly dressed: Babkak's only wearing loose pants, belly hanging out, and Kassim's clad in a long, soft shirt, and pants that reach just past his knees, all of which Omar recognizes as their sleeping clothes. It occurs to Omar that if there's no fresh water outside his room, it must still be well before dawn.

"What time is it?" he asks, voice hoarse and barely above a whisper.

"About four?" Kassim answers, lowering his voice to match and glancing at Babkak for confirmation.

"Something like that," says Babkak, and before Omar's even opened his mouth to respond, he goes on with, "Don't you dare apologize for waking us, it wasn't your fault. We're always here to look after you."

"You do that a lot, don't you?" Omar says, hanging his head, and hiccups out a wet laugh, topped off with a miserable sniffle. Both Babkak and Kassim surge closer at that, pulling him into a sort of three-way embrace, made awkward by their positions on the bed.

"Not always," says Kassim, somehow both stubborn and soft at once. "You've done plenty of looking out for us, you know."

"And it's not like we mind," Babkak adds, as he cranes his neck to try and catch Omar's eye. "You're our friend. And if we've got anything to do with it, you'll never have to beg for anything again. We would never, ever abandon you when you needed us."

Omar's first reaction is to laugh, with gratitude and a swelling heart, but it somehow sets him off crying again, and Kassim has to hurry to set the jug and cup on the side table before he and Babkak can shuffle closer, hugging him tight, their heads and arms and legs all in a jumble. They stay like that, shifting every now and then to relieve a strained muscle or awkwardly-bent joint, until Omar has stopped sniffling and sobbing, and they all feel like they can talk again.

"Feeling better?" Babkak asks, stroking his thumb across Omar's tear-stained cheek, and he nods, gaining a smile from Babkak and a kiss from Kassim, softly-given, just below his ear. Babkak notices it, but says nothing.

"Would you –" Omar starts, looking from one to the other. "Could you sleep here for the rest of the night?"

"Morning," Babkak corrects, with his usual, sardonic air, but immediately follows it with, "Of course," and Kassim grins in response.

"Like old times," he says. "We just need Al to finish off the group."

"Best not to wake him," Omar says, with another weak laugh, and finally untangles his hands to wipe the tear tracks from his cheeks and temples. Babkak helps him out, with a gentle thumb and a smile.

"I think Jasmine would kill us if we took him away from her, anyway," he says, intentionally making Omar laugh again, then swallow hard.

"More water?" Kassim offers. Omar shakes his head. "Okay. Lie down."

Omar does, and Babkak twists around to get under the covers and lie properly as Kassim hops up and crosses the room. He blows out the lamp, and pads back across the room in the dark; then Omar feels the dip of the mattress as he climbs in and shuffles closer. The bed is more than big enough for the three of them, and both men turn on their sides to face Omar, Babkak squeezing his hand once and Kassim hooking his arm around Omar's waist. Omar turns his head, looking at the faint outlines of one, then another, of his dearest friends, and feeling more love, and more loved, than he knew possible.

Babkak falls asleep first, as always; and soon enough, the moonlight stops shining in Kassim's watchful eyes as he, too, drops off. It doesn't take long for Omar to follow. He doesn't dream again, but sleeps quiet and sound, until, in the grey light of dawn, he is slowly woken by a soft knock on his door. He drags himself into consciousness, in time to see Aladdin sticking his head in to murmur, "Hey Omar, do you know where Kassim –"

Then Al's eyes fall on the pile of limbs and blankets in the middle of the bed, the faintly snoring, sleeping lumps, and his expression softens. He sees Omar blinking awake, and steps into the room, shutting the door gently behind him.

"What happened?" he whispers.

"I had a nightmare," Omar whispers back, over Kassim's clad shoulder and back, slowly rising and falling. "I didn't mean to wake them, but…"

Al's still only in his sleeping clothes, with an ornate, silk robe thrown on top, and Omar tilts his head, unwilling to move too much from the comfort of the cuddle pile.

"What's up?" he asks, still keeping his voice low and quiet.

Al sighs, coming closer.

"Just got up early," he says. "Jasmine's been thinking about women's health, and I wanted to see if Kassim had – it doesn't matter." He's standing right by the bed now, looking down at them with something almost wistful in his eye. "Man, I think I miss this."

Omar smiles. He knows the feeling, surprising yet familiar, of finding comfort in something small and old even amongst the luxury of palace life.

"Get in," he whispers, beckoning with his chin. "I'm sure Jasmine won't mind."

"You don't –" Al starts, but breaks himself off, as if not wanting to voice something horrible. Omar smiles at him, even when his brows are pulling down with worry and care.

"Al," he sighs – "you're one of the gang. You're always welcome with us, even after you've run off somewhere. Whenever you come back, you've got a place. You know the routine by now."

Aladdin smiles back, wide and warm, and slips off his dressing gown, tossing it over the nearest chair as he carefully pulls back the covers and climbs in behind Kassim. He reaches over the man with one hand, half under the blanket, and Omar meets it, first with a fist bump, then with a brief, firm hold, the angle awkward, but the sentiment true. Then Al pulls back, and snuggles into Kassim's broad back, like he must have done a hundred times before. Omar looks over to one side, at Babkak's relaxed face, then to the other, where Kassim's head is pillowed next to his own, nearly on Omar's shoulder; and, beyond that, the curl of hair and corner of a forehead that is visible of Al, shifting to get comfortable, and ready to fall back asleep.

Omar drops off again in seconds.

* * *

Everyone but Omar is late to a meeting that morning, but none of them care overmuch. Omar is only exempt because he hasn't got a meeting to go to.

* * *

Something about the time away has changed things. Omar can't quite pin down what, precisely, is different, but he knows that _something_ is. It's not just the thing with Kassim, although that hasn't gone unnoticed. It's not that he suddenly belongs at the palace – quite the opposite in fact. After two days, Al looks at Omar over breakfast with regret and apologies in his eyes, and says he's made no progress with the heads of staff; that the new royal vizier is telling him he needs to curb his influence; and who is he to disagree? They're all outsiders in this place, to some extent. Even the prince.

Still, something is different. A few weeks away and a bit of sex haven't magically fixed the problem of his incongruity at the palace – a bit of a change is not the same as a magic lamp – but the simple return to his old, depressing life has not been quite so inevitable as he would have expected. It should have been predictable, and obvious; but it's not.

By the end of the week, Omar's leaving the palace again, going out to the marketplace after breakfast and spending the day running errands for people who recognize and trust him. He never had to pay for board, and now he doesn't pay for food or clothes, so the money just goes into a box under his bed, or to a snack or nice trinket or other. It begins to feel like if one or another of them ever screws up again, Omar will at least be able to pay a fine from his savings. But living in the palace and going back to the marketplace every day to work is not only a chore, it's distracting, and distancing. He doesn't see his friends during the day, not unless Babkak has a few hours to spare and comes to join him, or Kassim and Al come out for a midday meal. Sometimes Esther gets a bit of time off and hangs out with him, but she, Tasnim, and Jamila are basically on call every hour of the day, and can't spare much time outside the palace without a lot of planning.

And Kassim…

Sometimes, when the two of them are alone in a room, it's as if Kassim can hardly bear to look at him. He clams up, and doesn't seem to know what to do with his hands, and can't make easy conversation. He certainly hasn't kissed Omar since his return, nor embraced him with that same effusive passion, but even the friendly contact has started to drop away. He misses the fingers dipping under his collar and belt, of course, and carding through his hair, and the warm breath against his neck, and the long press of hips and thighs. Even more, though, does he miss the little casual things: the arms around shoulders, and punches and fist bumps, and comfortable hands on waists and backs. There are fewer of them now than there used to be, and not just because Omar spends so much time away. He wonders if the whole affair was the worst mistake he could have made: he would have rather kept his friend and never gained a lover than to end up losing both.

And Allah forbid Omar remember the kisses, the caresses, the _sex._ He thinks back to their conversation after the first time, nearly awkward – held in the doorway of rooms that were his home for a month, longer than almost any other place since his parents died – and he knows it was the moment they agreed to keep doing it, to humor themselves and their basic attraction. What he can't remember is a time they agreed to stop. But by some kind of mutual, silent decision, they haven't done anything since Omar moved back into the palace, since that last morning in the apartment, fervent and close. He certainly doesn't _want_ to have stopped, but it's as if the distance and impermanence of the apartment gave them license to do as they pleased, to indulge their curiosity and their physicality without thinking about emotions or consequences. Now that Omar's back at the palace, and they share quarters and meals and acquaintances again, the lid has been put back on the jar, the genie forced into the lamp, the cat somehow crawling back into the bag.

If they just ignore it hard enough, they can forget anything ever happened, and life can go on as it always did.

Right?

But it's not enough. Maybe that's what's changed, Omar thinks. Now, he has the guts to admit – at least to himself – that he doesn't just want sex, he wants _romance._ He wants soppy gestures and declarations, he wants intimacy and quiet, he wants dates and flowers and small remembrances, a life shared in a different way to how he shares it with Babkak, Esther, Aladdin. He wants love and sex both, wants Kassim to know the whole extent of his adoration and to return it just as shamelessly and strong, instead of eking a sex life out of a lie of omission.

What Omar gets is escaping the palace every day to run errands in the marketplace. He gets shared meals where, when Kassim sits next to him, he keeps his elbows to himself and his hands always in a different place from Omar's. He gets to sigh to himself looking at Kassim's back and arms and butt across the room, but pretend to be busy when Kassim looks around. He gets to hold something inside, something guilty and secret, instead of telling Babkak and Al in just enough detail to make them yell at him to stop the way they all do when Al gets too soppy about Jasmine.

But at least he still gets Kassim: grinning and friendly, stubborn and scowling, and everything in between. It's not enough, but it's also not starving or completely alone, and he just about finds it in himself to be grateful for that.

* * *

Then without warning, one day Omar stops being grateful. He wakes up with bitterness like bile reaching from his stomach to his throat, and not going away. He refuses to go to the marketplace, eats his breakfast in stubborn silence, and pretends not to hear when Jamila calls to him across the garden. He skips lunch, and avoids the kitchens and library, and drags himself halfway around the palace and back trying not to speak to anyone until he finds himself in their quarters again. Omar takes one look at the door to his room – huge, opulent, empty – and his feet turn instead to the room at the end, where Kassim's left the door open onto a room strewn with dirty laundry, and piles of books and scrolls, with not even a semblance of order or logic to the mess. He doesn't bother taking off his sandals: just crosses the room in a straight line and crawls into the untidy bed, and lays down on his side, curling up and waiting as he stews silently. He doesn't ask himself why he came here; he doesn't have an answer to that. He just knows that, here, the bile in his throat doesn't sting quite as much, the chaos in his mind is more calm than it would be in his room, where the wall hangings picked out by Babkak look too small against the big, empty walls.

It's an hour before he's disturbed. Omar dozes while he waits, cheek smashed against a stray pillow and arms crossed and tucked under him. Inevitably, however, Kassim comes shouldering into the room with a piece of bread in one hand and a pile of scrolls under his arm, humming faintly under his breath. He freezes just inside the doorway when he catches sight of Omar, who blinks back to wakefulness amongst the twisted sheets.

"Hey Omar," Kassim says, with an air of bewilderment pasted over with normality. "What are you doing in my room? And, in my – bed…?" He punctuates the sentence with a quiet swallow.

"Oh, nothing," Omar sighs into the pillow, drawling a little. "Just annoyed that everything's gone horribly wrong."

Kassim looks rather more exasperated than confused, relaxing enough to kick the door shut behind him. "What are you talking about?" he says, as he crosses the room to toss the bread and scrolls on a table and pull off his boots.

"It doesn't matter." Omar mutters. "It's just – you've got your studies and your Royal Advisor work, and Babkak's happy in the kitchens, and Al's got all his prince stuff to deal with, and even after everything that's happened – what have I got? Still nothing. All that bother and I'm just back where I started. Al's had no luck, and I've had no luck, and there's nothing wrong with errands, except why should I keep living in the palace if _that's_ how I'm going to make a living? I'm sick of it."

Kassim drops his boots into a corner with an "Eugh," and a long-suffering roll of his eyes as he crosses his arms over his chest. He scowls over at Omar, whose face is half-mashed into the pillow and almost matching Kassim's ire. Then, out of nowhere, Kassim softens for once, shoulders falling with a little sigh.

"Well, at least brooding is a step up from moping around like a depressed ghost all the time," he mutters. "You've seemed better since your banishment. Notthat I'm saying it was a good thing, but – y'know."

Omar was sort of expecting something pithy or off-hand, a joke or an optimistic platitude. The honesty throws him off, and he frowns a little, mostly to himself. The only way he can respond, though, is in kind.

"I'm sick of brooding," he says into the sheets. "I'm sick of not having a place here."

"Well you won't get one by sitting in my room all day and avoiding everyone," Kassim shrugs, moving towards the desk. "Have you talked to the tailors?" he goes on, sorting through the scrolls, reading the labels and putting some away on a shelf, dropping others onto an existing pile. "Because you should. You'd be good at that kind of work."

Omar rolls his eyes at the same time he rolls over to keep facing Kassim. "What, just _rock up_ and ask for a job?" he snorts. _"Please."_

"Well, why not?" says Kassim. "It worked for me."

"You didn't _ask,_ Al _offered_ it," Omar snipes. "And I can't! Al's already tried! He said the new Royal Advisor told him to ease off on the palace staff, not everyone thinks he's welcome here. He can't afford to make enemies."

"He's not trying hard enough," Kassim grumbles at the table. Even Omar takes offense at that.

"He's trying plenty hard!"

"Well, he's not trying in the right way, then," Kassim counters over his shoulder. "Nah, that's unfair. I can't blame him, really, I'm getting the same resistance. Half the court only tolerates him because Jasmine would throw them out if they objected. We've got to tread lightly."

"Exactly," Omar mumbles. "It's not his fault, but it's not helping."

" _Which means_ you should try on your own," says Kassim, finishing up with the scrolls and picking up the bread. When Omar opens his mouth to protest, he turns and overrides him. "It can't hurt, right? The direct route. You're good at clothes, you've got good taste, you enjoy dressing people. You can sew. I know they don't think they have an opening, but you could help with manufacturing, or sampling, or buying, or _designing,_ I don't know – there's always people who want new clothes around here."

"They're _not hiring,"_ Omar insists. "We've checked."

"Well, check again," snaps Kassim, and tears a chunk out of the bread with his teeth. "Like I said," he adds, muffled through his chewing: "can't hurt."

Omar purses his lips; but even he has to admit that Kassim's optimism is working its magic. It's almost uncharacteristic, except that when Kassim's not being a stubborn idiot, he's usually throwing himself fists-first into some wild endeavor or another, assuming it will go just fine.

"You're impossible," he says, muttering it into the pillows.

Kassim smirks at him through the bread, and swallows.

"It's part of my charm," he drawls; and then his breath catches, and his eyes go wide, like he's just realized what he said. As Omar watches, he tenses up, and turns around, going back to the scrolls which are already well and truly sorted. His hands hover above the desk for a second, as Omar balks at the very idea of trying to change the subject. He feels like they're both suddenly on a knife's edge, poised to plunge. Kassim is frozen, as if deliberating, deciding on something vital.

A moment later, he swivels back around, opens his mouth, and says, plain and sincere:

"I've missed you, Omar."

Omar's face goes slack. He has nothing to say to that. Inside his chest, his heart is beating like a bird in a cage in the middle of a storm, though all around him is still, and warm, and quiet. Kassim is looking at him, terrifyingly and deliberately straightforward, from across the room, and Omar shifts his head to see him properly.

"It was only a month," he says, trying and failing to make it a joke. "And you came to visit."

"I know," says Kassim, still looking straight at Omar,who feels unable to look away, scared and wildly hopeful. Kassim's jaw is very tight. "But it's not the same as having you here."

Omar doesn't know what to say to that. To brush it off would be heartless, and Omar could never be that. To acknowledge it, however, is way too scary. So instead, Omar asks, "Why are you saying this?" trying to match the power of Kassim's bare honesty. It doesn't seem to have the same effect: Kassim just shrugs.

"I just think it's worth saying," he says. "So you know that you're still wanted here, that you're appreciated. That you shouldn't leave. I – I know Babkak and Al feel the same way."

"Oh."

Omar knows precisely why that feels disappointing, and he is trying very, very hard to ignore it.

"But y'know," Kassim continues – "I mean it. I've missed you."

Omar stares.

"This is weird," he says. Kassim laughs, finally looking away, ducking his chin.

"Only a bit."

Omar doesn't know what to say to that, either. He looks down at his hands, twisted into each other, an anxious mess of knobbly knuckles. There's a long moment of silence; then Omar hears the soft pad of Kassim's bare feet crossing the room, and feels the mattress dip. Kassim is settling down across the bed from him, with his legs tucked next to him, leaning on his hand. Now, he is only faintly meeting Omar's eye.

"You do know…" Kassim tries, then grimaces and starts again. "You _have_ to know – that we wouldn't want to live here without you. _All_ of us, I mean it. Even Babkak. You said 'why live here if you're running errands in the city,' but you belong with the gang, and the gang lives in the palace now. A month without you around was awful, for everyone. Al likes you because you're sensitive and kind, and he can't get that from anyone else around him, and Babkak likes you because you're always so damn genuine about everything even when he's being a cynical bastard, and _I_ like you…"

He trails off, looking over at the wall, like he's regretting ever starting that sentence. Omar shifts his head, tilting it in question. He bites his lip

"Because I had sex with you?" he offers. Kassim laughs; it sounds choked.

"Well, that helps," he admits, and looks down at Omar with a smile on his mouth, stretched and thin, and not quite in his eyes. "I like you because of those other things as well, though. I like you because you're…" He stops, and takes a breath – holds it for a moment – then finishes. "Sweet. In all the best ways."

Omar can't look away from him. It feels like the closes they've been in weeks, a different kind of intimacy to sex. There is something about Kassim's shoulders and gaze that is casual and calm and, if not relaxed, at least not on edge, not hedging himself in and trying to avoid direct contact. It feels almost like that first time in the apartment, with some kind of bowstring wound up tight and painful in Omar's chest, though this one is knotty and more complicated than that, much more than just an orgasm waiting to happen. But there's a question niggling at the back of his mind, something ill-favored and foreboding, that he horribly needs to ask.

"But it _was_ just sex…" he says, offering it as much as he can like a question, an opportunity in disguise. "Right?"

Kassim's eyes go a little wide, and Omar's not sure exactly which answer he'd prefer to hear.

"Right!" Kassim agrees, then pushes himself up off his hand, sitting up and turning away from Omar. "Just sex, yeah, of course."

His back is rigid and awkward where it faces Omar, who honestly isn't any less confused than before, the string in his chest a little looser, but hopelessly tangled. It's clear Kassim feels out of place, that he isn't saying everything he's thinking; but Omar's at a loss to figure out how. Is Kassim lying? Or has he seen what Omar's trying to hide – seen the over-eager, naïve, sentimental part of him that wants more, wants flowers and baklava and kisses that aren't furtive or denied – and balked at the prospect?

Omar can't tell, and it would be risking too much to push the matter. The sex appears to have stopped, and that will have to be fine, if they go back to being friends and only friends. As long as Omar doesn't lose him completely, he won't mind. All he knows for sure is that whatever Kassim is ready to give, Omar will be happy to take. He's not giving very much anymore, though.

"I should go," Omar mutters at last, heaving himself up off the bed and across the room.

"Talk to the tailors!" Kassim shouts after him, arresting him before the doors. Omar turns, and frowns over his shoulder, response at the ready, but Kassim beats him to it. "Just talk to them, okay? You might as well try."

"Okay," says Omar, staring at him and not really caring if it shows. It's hardly a concrete position, but it's still the most hopeful option anyone's given him, even if it will take effort and risk. It strikes Omar as much as a shock as it does a ray of hope. "Okay," he says again, and there's something different about this time. Something lighter. "I will. Thank you."

"All right, now get out," Kassim laughs, waving him away as he drops back onto the bed. "By Allah, I came in here to have a nap, not a serious conversation."

Omar rolls his eyes at the transparency of the diversion.

"Thanks, Kassim," he says again, and pulls at the door, leaving the man and his big, comfortable, less-than-lonely bed behind. There's still a knot in his chest, but he also feels a bit like he's floating, with hope and delight just from Kassim trying to help, Kassim telling him he missed him, Kassim looking at him with plain sincerity; and at the prospect of sticking out his neck for himself, for once.


	9. Chapter 9

Omar is in a crisis. And in a crisis, he will always, always go to his friends.

* * *

He doesn't know why it feels so formal just to talk to his friend. But Al's got a whole suite up in one of the palace towers with Jasmine, and everyone except the sultan has to ask special permission from the guards just to go up and speak to them. Omar supposes he could have waited until dinner, or until he ran into Al sometime by accident, but he doesn't want to talk in front of Kassim, and accidents, by their very nature, are unpredictable. And Omar really, really, _really_ wants to be able to predict as much about this as possible.

So Omar is given the all clear by a smirking royal guard first thing in the morning, and climbs the many, spiraling stairs up to the royal chambers. As he climbs, he goes over and over what he wants to say in his head: what he needs to convey, how best to convey it. Aladdin's one of his best friends, and no matter how unlikely it would be for him to side with Kassim over Omar, it would be devastating to lose him over this mess.

At the top of the stairs, Omar takes a few moments to get his breath back and steel himself, before he knocks gently on the first door. It's unlatched, and swings smoothly and silently open at his touch, letting Omar slip into a large, semi-circular room littered with pouffes, sofas, locked desks, intricate latticework, and a profusion of delicate lamps. The genie's old lamp has been given pride of place in a niche over one of the desks. Omar doesn't need to wonder whether Al uses it for its apparent purpose; he knows its true worth, after all.

"Hey, Al?" Omar calls out – not without hesitation – and receives no response. There are three doors that lead off the opulent front room, and only one of them is closed, so Omar tries and fails to set his shoulders as he crosses the room. He raises his hand again when he gets there, takes another breath, and knocks.

"Al, are you in there?"

There's a moment of heavy silence; and then Al's voice sounds out through the door, a little muffled, by the wood but also as if he kind of has his mouth full.

"Who is it?" he calls.

"It's Omar," he says back, trying to find the balance between raising his voice to be heard through the door, and keeping it low and respectful in the private chambers of their Royal Highnesses, the prince and princess of Agrabah, next in line for the throne itself. "I need to speak to you? It's –" He swallows. "It's important."

There is another long moment of silence. Omar thinks he can hear whispering from the room, but he can't be sure it's not just the breeze rustling the trees in the garden below. Then Al's voice calls out again, saying "I'll be there in a minute!", and Omar can hear Jasmine giggling, and then – drawers opening and shutting? A closet door slamming? And in a flash of mortified realization, Omar thinks he suspects what Aladdin was doing to sound so muffled, and that it's not entirely different to what Kassim once did to Omar against the wall of his apartment. Omar's hands slap to cover his mouth, and he stumbles back from the door, shouting "I can come back later if you need –"

Then the door whips open a fraction, and Al is looking out, frantically tucking a shirt into his trousers, barefoot and with his hair a complete mess. His breathing is coming a little hard for first thing in the morning, his expression one of studious neutrality. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve.

"Yeah Omar?"

Oh, he was definitely doing what Kassim once did to Omar.

Omar is very aware that his face is a mask of shock and embarrassment.

"I can come back," he starts, "if…"

"No! No," Al smiles, waving away the objection and squeezing himself out into the front room, keeping the door as closed as possible and shutting it firmly as soon as he's through. Omar hears Jasmine laughing faintly from the other side. "If you came all the way up here to talk about it, it's got to be important. Sit down, please!"

Omar looks about him, at a loss for a moment, before he just picks the nearest armchair and crosses to it, sinking frightfully into the opulent cushions. Al follows, and plunks himself down on a low table in front of Omar. When Omar – at a loss for how to start – just rests his head in his hands, Aladdin frowns, and cranes to try and see his expression.

"Omar?" he says, sounding much less blasé than a moment ago. "Is everything all right?"

Omar looks at him – at his earnest, open face and concerned expression, having so willingly taken himself away from what must have been a very nice morning to help his friend with something unknown – and melts a little with gratitude.

"It's… about Kassim," he starts, but doesn't quite know where to go from there. Al's frown gets deeper.

"What about him?" he asks. "What has he done? If you need me to call him off from something, officially, I mean –"

"No, no, it's nothing like that!" Omar yelps, waving Al down before he can get too concerned. "No, he hasn't done anything wrong. Only – no, that's not on him."

"Then what's up?"

Omar takes a long, steady breath, and sighs it out, before he can look at Al and say:

"I'm in love with him?"

Al blinks.

"And?" he says; then his eyes go wide, and he rears back, crying _"I didn't mean that!"_ and holding out his hands in capitulation. "Sorry, oh gosh, that sounded so bad! I just meant – y'know –" His fingers twirl meaninglessly for a moment, mouth opening and closing, but making no sound. Omar blinks into a frown.

"Is that – not a surprise to you?" he asks. Relieved of the task of trying to think of something to say, Al blows out a breath, shoulders slumping.

"Honestly?" he says, and shakes his head, grimacing. "No. I mean, I know you guys have never said anything to us, and that's fine! Honestly, it's totally fine, we get it, but y'know –"

Omar squeezes his eyes shut for a second before he can override Al.

"Sorry," he says – _"'we'?"_

Which just makes Al freeze for a moment, caught out like a thief with his hand on someone else's belt, eyes wide and petrified, body still.

"Me," he says, wavering with a sense of inevitability into, "and Babkak… and Jasmine and Esther and Tasnim…"

"You _knew?"_ Omar frowns. "Since when?"

Al shrugs.

"Maybe a year now? Well, obviously not Jasmine for that long, but –"

"A _year?"_ Omar repeats. "Even _I_ haven't known for a year!"

"You – haven't?" says Al, and sits back on his table. "Oh. Okay. Sorry, I think things are a lot different to what I… thought was going on…"

"Yeah, obviously," says Omar, staring at him for just a moment more of total bewilderment before he manages to shake off the ridiculousness of the situation and say: "Look, that doesn't matter. What matters is, how do I _tell_ Kassim?"

"Tell him?" says Al. "What, you mean he doesn't know? Haven't you two – oh my God –"

Omar nearly throws his hands in the air: this conversation is getting _ridiculous._

"Haven't we _what?"_ he says, and guesses what Al means just too late to stop him. Al says, "You've been sleeping together, right?", at the same time as Omar freaks out and claps his hands over his ears, yelling "Oh gosh, you _weren't meant to know!"_ Al rears back at the outburst, hands in the air; and then a second later, he's dissolving into laughter, which of course sets Omar off, his own mirth a bit more panicked than Al's. He stares down at where Al is bent double at the waist, cackling, until the man straightens up enough to put his hands on Omar's knees and look at him, with tears in the corners of his eyes.

"Omar," he gasps out, "what is _wrong_ with all of us?!"

It shocks another laugh out of Omar; and then, as Al descends into giggling again, he finds himself grinning along with him.

"You knew?" he says, face already starting to hurt with the joy of it. This whole conversation hasn't gone as expected, but in the best possible way. So much for predictable. "You actually knew, all along?"

"It started, what," says Al, "around when you moved away, right?"

"Right!" Omar laughs; then suddenly, he's not laughing anymore, as the whole weight of the reason he's here comes tumbling back onto his shoulders. Aladdin notices – because of course he does – and immediately sobers.

"What is it," he says, "what's wrong?"

Omar swallows his fear, tight and determined about it.

"Well – Kassim," he tries to explain – "he doesn't know. About… the way I feel."

"Doesn't he?" says Al, and he sounds so genuinely, unabashedly surprised that Omar doesn't know what to say.

"I – he –" he stammers for a moment – "No. N-no he doesn't. We talked about it after the first time, and we agreed it was just… That it didn't have to mean anything, and…"

Aladdin's dropping his face into his hands, elbows on his knees, shaking his head a little. It makes Omar stop, and frown.

"What?" he says. Al takes a steadying breath.

"I know this is going to sound hypocritical," he says, looking up at Omar with pity and long-suffering turning down his brow – "but you guys are _idiots."_

Omar nearly pouts at that.

"About what?" he says, and Al is just smiling up at him and shaking his head in resignation.

"About love," he replies, and before Omar can even open his mouth, he continues. "I know, I know, _completely_ hypocritical," he says, "but it's still true."

"Well," Omar grits out – "what do I _do_ about it?"

Al's gaze goes wide with shock, and he just stares at Omar for a second, seemingly at a loss.

"You're asking _me?"_ he says. "Omar – do you _remember_ when I was trying to woo Jasmine? _I_ was the one asking _you guys_ for advice! The only reason anything worked out is because she's so wonderful."

"And the whole thing with Jafar," Omar points out.

"And the whole thing with Jafar," Aladdin shrugs, "true. But come on – what kind of advice could I possibly give you?"

"I don't know," Omar groans. "You're our friend, though. You've known Kassim longer than I have, I thought, maybe…"

Al sighs, finally straightening up where he sits.

"Oh, Omar," he says. "I wish I could help you, but I haven't got a clue where you should even start. You slept with him and agreed it meant nothing, but you're actually in love with him, and now…" He sighs again, with a sad little smile on his face. "All I know is, you should be honest. That's what screwed me over. If you keep going on a lie, eventually, the truth will come out, and it'll just be worse for everyone. Dishonesty can ruin a person."

"Yeah?" says Omar, latching onto the advice. "You think I should – tell him?"

"Gosh, of course you should tell him!" Al insists, eager and true. "Just – how you'd go about it… I've got no idea." He grimaces in apology. "Sorry. Have you tried asking Babkak?"

Omar rolls his eyes.

"Babkak?" he says. "He's my friend, but he's not exactly the most _delicate_ person, is he? And I have a horrible feeling this is going to need a _lot_ of delicacy."

Al shrugs to one side in half-hearted agreement. "True," he says. "And sure, we all know Babkak prefers food to people, so romance isn't really his strong suit, but – well, it's Babkak, isn't it? He's the best person if you want a solution to a problem. Maybe it's not always the solution you want, or the most subtle one, but if anyone can think of a way to fix things – especially where Kassim's involved – well, it'll be him."

Omar frowns. Now that Aladdin's said it, it sounds horribly obvious, and it makes perfect sense. Babkak isn't really big on subtle symbols or roundabout solutions; but then again, Omar's already tried talking around the issue, and it's gotten him nowhere. The whole situation is a mess, and Kassim can be such an idiot when he's got an idea of something in his head, stubborn and sincere, and Omar's certainly proved that he's got no way of getting at the truth, or what he wants with Kassim, on his own merit. Maybe simple and direct is what he needs.

"You're right," Omar says at last, a little surprised by the realization. He meets Al's eye again. "Maybe Babkak won't have the _best_ idea, but it's worth asking. Right?"

"That's the spirit," Aladdin grins, and claps Omar on the arm, jostling him and making him smile. "And trust me – Kassim will come around. I know he's not always good about being… let's say _vulnerable._ But he adores you."

Omar rolls his eyes. "Yeah," he mutters, "you all do, I know."

"Not like that we don't," says Al, with a sly turn to his voice which Omar recognizes all too easily. "There's something… special about the way Kassim looks at you."

"What, like he wants to – y'know –"

Al grimaces and hums a protest, holding up his hand.

"Please stop," he forces out. "No details, not about my best friends." It jolts a quick, high chuckle out of Omar. "But that's not what I meant," Al goes on. "Kassim is different to me and Babkak. Trust me."

Omar looks at him, trying to find the lie in his gaze, and sucks in a tight breath, holding it as he deliberates. When he lets out the breath through his nose, he can tell that his face is still pinched with worry and fear.

"Maybe," is all he says; then lets himself melt into a smile again. "But thanks, Al. You've been a big help."

Al laughs at that.

"All I did was tell you to ask someone else," he says, but Omar clasps his hand anyway, grateful and sincere.

"Well, thanks for telling me to ask someone else, then," he says as he stands. "You're a good friend."

"So are you, you know," Al says, almost like an accusation, but a private, friendly one. "I hope you work it out with Kassim, honestly," he adds. "For both your sakes."

* * *

One difficult conversation about his love life is quite enough for one day, Omar decides. He avoids the kitchens for the day, going out to run errands instead and meeting Al, Kassim, and Tasnim for lunch at the palace. When Al catches his eye across the table while Kassim and Tasnim flirt meaninglessly with each other, Omar grimaces and shakes his head.

Al looks far too sorry for him to be helpful.

The next day, Omar makes it his mission to speak to the tailors himself. He dresses himself as well as he possibly can with his limited wardrobe, and triple checks with a different royal guard each time to make sure he's going in the right direction. The professional quarters of the palace are a maze of corridors and smaller rooms and twisting, narrow staircases, and it's not until after Omar makes two wrong turnings and ends up on the fourth floor instead of the third that he finds himself in front of a door labelled 'Wardrobe'.

He knocks.

It's possible that the handful of seconds it takes before someone answers are the longest seconds of Omar's life.

Then the door opens, and Omar plasters a smile onto his face.

"Hi!" he grins out, a bit frantically. "My name's Omar, I'm a friend of –"

"I know who you are," says the woman behind the door, low and weary and conspicuously lacking in patience. Her face and body are as long as her voice, not tall, but lanky, and poised, clearly used to a measure of authority. Her hair is covered by a plain, white scarf, but she makes even that simplicity look stately. It's very intimidating.

"Oh," says Omar, deflating a little. "Well – I came around, because –"

"Because you think you're a great designer and you'd love to come work for us and show us what to do," the woman drawls. "Yeah. I know."

"No," Omar frowns. "Well, I don't know, I guess I _can_ design – no, that's not what I meant. I'm looking for a job."

"We don't have any openings."

And the woman goes to close the door in his face, and of course, Omar panics, and he throws out his hand to stop her, palm slapping against the wood. The woman looks up at him as if she's considering having his head cut off. For some reason, Omar doesn't doubt that she'd be able to make it happen.

"I beg your pardon?" she says, and Omar wants to just shrink into the floor and disappear.

"I – I mean," he stammers – "I just mean – please, I need a job here. I don't want to be elevated, I'm not looking for any special favors, I just need somewhere to earn a living and have a position. I can cut and sew well enough, I can pick out fabrics – I run errands in the marketplace, lots of people know me there, if you need someone to help with the best shops and imports, I know my way around – and – I can do menial work, I'm not here out of ambition – and – please?"

The woman is drawing the door open a little bit, peering out at him with a gradually increasing tilt to her head, and a sense of interest that seems to be growing. When Omar runs out of things to chatter about, she finally pulls the door open all the way, and steps back.

"My name's Aisha," she says. "Come in."

There is a tight, light ball of something trapped behind Omar's sternum. He nods, and bows, and tries to keep breathing as he scurries into the room, keeping his arms close to his chest.

"I –" he starts, "I know you've probably got plenty of people, but even if I could just have a provisional place –"

"Stop," Aisha orders, halting his words and his feet in the middle of the room. He finally looks around, and sees that he's in a long, broad anteroom, lit up with huge windows at either end and lamps all along the walls, with desks and chairs and huge cutting tables in rows interspersed with doors leading off to other rooms of mysterious use and muffled sounds; and everywhere, in every spare corner, overflowing from every cupboard, are rolls and rolls of fabric. Silks, and wools, and linens, and all kinds of blends, are piled and lined and stood up against the walls, in every color of the rainbow and more. There are huge baskets of scraps and remnants, outcast pieces of the finest weaves Omar has ever seen, and that includes his life before the streets.

There is no one else in the room.

"Impressive, isn't it?" says Aisha, and there is just a hint of a smile in her voice and eyes. Omar is sure he's gawping like a fool, but he can hardly help it.

"There's – I mean –" He stops and starts, doesn't know how to even begin. "It's _amazing –"_

"Oh, it is nice to get some fresh eyes in here now and then," says Aisha, looking around with a sort of satisfied smile. "Gives you perspective, you know?"

"I guess so," says Omar, more out of politeness than anything else: he's just caught sight of a cupboard stacked full of rolls and tubes and jars of jeweled buttons, in neat, color-coded rows. They sparkle more than Aladdin's most official turban.

"Listen, Omar," says Aisha – "I know who you are. I know you did good work on the clothes for your cook friend, and the next vizier. But we don't have any permanent positions open."

"I know," Omar winces, "but if you'll just give me a chance –"

Aisha raises her voice. _"But,"_ she says, overriding him – "it turns out I might actually be able to help you. You know the feast in a couple of weeks, for the royal party visiting from Prince Abdullah?"

Omar does not.

"I guess so…?"

"No you don't," says Aisha, like it's obvious, and also like she doesn't care. "Well, every courtier and their pet monkey wants a new suit for the occasion, plus we've got repair work and updates for the royal family to do. The workload is up, and we could use an extra hand."

Omar's eyes go wide, a tentative smile pulling at his mouth.

"I've got extra hands," he says, and can't even find it in himself to regret the choice of words. Aisha raises one dark eyebrow, but lets it go.

"If we consider this week your probation," she says, "and if your probation goes well, I might be willing to think about taking you on as an occasional."

"An – occasional?" Omar repeats. "What does that mean?"

"It means you'll be on our books," says Aisha, deftly allaying his first fears. "You'll be officially employed by the wardrobe department here at the palace, and we'll have you around to work when we need… extra hands. You'll be paid good money for whatever work you do."

Omar is nearly breathless with hope and suspense.

"And that work would be…?"

"Cutting and sewing," Aisha shrugs. "We'll show you how we work, you'll take your orders from the seamstresses here, who take their orders from the dressers and designers, who take their orders from me. Menial work – but you said you don't mind that."

"I don't!" Omar cries. "I definitely don't mind – really? You'll take me on?"

" _Probationally,"_ Aisha drawls. "You might turn out to be terrible, for all I know."

"I won't!" Omar gasps. "Gosh, no – you won't regret this –"

"Everyone's already working for the day, there's nowhere to fit you, but be here first thing tomorrow morning," says Aisha, with an imperious nod. "We've already started on the feast clothes, but I'll find someone for you to shadow. Any one of them would love a bit of help."

"Thank you," Omar sighs in relief, "thank you! First thing in the morning, yes!"

"And I mean _first thing,"_ says Aisha, enunciating very clearly. "If the sun is up and you're not here –"

"No, I understand!" Omar says, nodding frantically. "Thank you! First thing in the morning, I'll be here!"

"You can go now," says Aisha, with a tiny, slightly condescending smile. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Thank you!" Omar says again, as he backs out of the room, Aisha following.

"And you can stop saying that," she says, as she jostles him back out into the hallway and puts her hand on the door. "You haven't got the position just yet."

With which she snaps the door in his face. Omar is breathing very fast, and his heart is racing like he's been trying to keep up with Al evading the guards, and he knows it isn't technically a position yet, but –

But boy is he still _ecstatic._

* * *

Omar hardly needs to wake up the next morning; his excitement keeps him up all night. By the time the sky is going from grey, to pale yellow, to a burning orange, he's washed and dressed and is standing in the professional quarters, moving slowly and hesitantly through the efficient streams of workers, all chattering and yawning and moving automatically through the confusing corridors to their respective jobs: cleaners, cobblers, candle-makers, servants, silver- and gold- and sword-smiths, jewel carvers, leather workers – the lot. On the third floor, Omar finds himself amongst a throng of people who all look vaguely familiar, branching off to their various offices for wool-dying, spinning, and weaving. He steps into Aisha's little hall surrounded by mostly women, with a few men scattered about, all with callouses on the ends of their fingers and stray pieces of thread stuck to their clothes. A few people give him odd looks, and he returns them with a smile which he hopes doesn't look as tight as it feels.

Then Aisha steps into the hall – perfectly in time, Omar imagines, with the sun slipping over the horizon outside – and the chatter dies away into a murmur, and then a hush, as she crosses the room. She steps up onto a chair, eyes scanning down a short scroll.

"Nothing new," she announces over everyone's heads, "except that the Royal Guard has dumped another cart full of capes with sword holes in them."

The room rustles with a titter of laughter and exasperation.

"And Samira, I need you to check the beading on those turbans for the wait staff before they go out," Aisha continues. "The next lot have come in with an _abundance_ of repairs and I don't need Sherif breathing down my neck about them again. The rest of you, just keep doing what you're doing," she goes on, looking out over them. "We're on track with the pieces for the feast, you all have the plans. Any questions, send them to your designers first, not me. And one last thing –" She points at Omar, and crooks her finger to beckon him over. "Omar, get up here."

He does, trying to make himself as small as possible as he sidles through the crowd, whispering constant apologies. When he gets to Aisha's side, she grabs him by the shoulder and hauls him up to stand next to her on the chair, crammed in on the tiny surface.

"This is Omar," says Aisha. He gives a cramped little wave. "He's on probation to be a new occasional. Miriam, where are you?"

Somewhere out to their right, near a cabinet full of spools of thread in all possible shades of pink, a tall, plump woman raises her hand. She's draped in cream sashes which contrast starkly with her olive-brown skin and piles of black hair; and, praise Allah, she's smiling.

"Omar, you'll be shadowing Miriam for the next week," Aisha says to him, then calls back out across the room: "Make sure you take him around, okay Miriam? Help him out if you can, the lot of you, don't let him get lost. Right, off you all go."

With which Aisha shoves Omar off the chair, hops down herself, and then disappears into the crowd, already bustling about. Omar squeezes through in the direction he thinks Miriam is, and she thankfully meets him halfway.

"Omar?" she says, looking at him with a slightly condescending smile. "Pleasure to meet you. I promise I don't bite."

* * *

The rest of the morning is a blur. Miriam points out what every room and cupboard and desk is for, and it all gets immediately muddled in Omar's head. She assures him he'll pick it up quickly enough, and to ask her first if he needs anything. She introduces him to a lot of people whose names he swiftly forgets, but who are all at least cordial to him. Then she takes him into a wide-open room full of huge desks spilling over with half-made clothes, all in pale shades of green, blue, orange, and pink, interspersed with bowls full of buttons and jewels. Miriam tells him she's working on the feast suit for a courtier named Rami, and holds out between her hands a slim pile of rich, orange satin.

"Can you hem?" she asks, and Omar looks at the fabric and swallows, hard.

"I think so," he says; and, thank Allah, Miriam only smiles, and lays the fabric in his hands.

"Well, why don't you show me what you can do," she says. "Rami likes his layers, anyway, so if you screw it up, it'll just be covered over with something else."

So Omar gets to work. Miriam chats about her husband, and listens to Omar's jokes, and gently points out to him where he goes wrong with his needle. It turns out that the majority of the palace workers live out in the city somewhere, mostly by their own choice. The palace is a ridiculous place, Miriam thinks, and her family needs a proper, normal life. It's only the heads of staff, really, that need to be on call, and though she may have to get up early to get there, it's worth it for her weekends and evenings off in her own home. Omar tells her about his friends, and their old life, and the shock of their new, and Miriam seems more or less interested in it all. They eat lunch in the main hall of the wardrobe department, with basic food provided by the kitchens and most of the tailors and seamstresses pulling their own special treats from home out of bags and pockets. Miriam lets Omar have a bite of her ma'amoul for dessert, and refuses to let him feel bad for having nothing to share in return.

By the end of the day, Omar has a pair of slashed orange sleeves, spotted with glass beads, to show for himself. It's the proudest he thinks he's felt in years.

"Come back tomorrow," is all Aisha says as she inspects them; but Omar sees Miriam wink behind Aisha's back, and suspects he might just be okay.

* * *

Omar and Kassim's days off coincide, two days later. As soon as he's done in the gym in the morning, Kassim drags Omar out to the gardens for a run, then to the palace baths, then to the marketplace to follow him around while he runs errands again. He's euphorically proud of Omar's position with the tailors ( _"Probationary_ position," Omar reminds him, though it does nothing to quell Kassim's broad and brilliant smile), and when he's not punching Omar in the arm in congratulations, he's complaining about other people, and the scrolls he has to read, and the cherry sauce from dinner last night, and Omar being away from the palace all the time when the others need him, and it makes Omar laugh to see him so petty again. A petty Kassim is a normal Kassim, after all.

It all means there's a longer wait until Omar can talk to Babkak, though, a wait in which he has too much time to fret, and sigh, and wring his hands. And all over a _boy._

Not just any boy. The cut on Kassim's arm has well and truly healed by now, just a faint red line of a fading scar, but it stands out when Kassim wears too little for the weather, anticipating the spring. The man has too much energy to know what to do with it, and still looks at other people's purses and unattended market stalls with a shifty, professional interest.

And he looks at Omar, when he seems to think Omar can't see him. What Omar senses in his open mouth and lowered eyes almost makes him believe what Al said about Kassim and adoration.

But he's probably just imagining it: trying to see things that aren't really there to make himself feel better. After all, by the time he turns around properly, the look is always gone.

* * *

"Babkak, I need your help!"

The kitchen is loud, as always, smelly as always, a blur of movement and steam, and Omar is in a rush to get this over with before the end of his lunch break up in the tailors' quarter. Luckily for him, Babkak could pick out any of their gang's voices from across the marketplace during the Hajj, and rolls his eyes as soon as he hears Omar's call.

"I'm a bit busy!" he shouts from across an enormous sheet of pastry dough as Omar weaves his way over to his bench.

"It's about Kassim," Omar says, and at least that catches Babkak's attention: he looks up from his work, eyes gleaming with anticipatory menace.

"What did he do?" he snaps. "Damn it, I knew he was going to screw this up, I'm going to kill that man –"

"No – no!" cries Omar, holding out his hands, palms forward, frantically trying to get Babkak not to spoil the pastry. "It's fine, he hasn't done anything wrong! Why does everyone assume that?"

"Wouldn't put it past him," Babkak grumbles, wielding his rolling pin with a little too much aggression for Omar's liking. "What's up then? I'm a little busy here."

Relief floods in as Babkak goes back to work, just glancing up at his friend. Omar huffs out a fortifying breath.

"Apparently this isn't a surprise to anyone," he says, "but I'm really in love with him."

Babkak looks up at him from under his dark brows, and his voice drawls when he speaks.

"I'm shocked."

Omar rolls his eyes.

"Yeah, yeah," he sighs, "that's what Al said."

"Oh, you told Al, too?" says Babkak as he rolls out the pastry. "What is this, confession hour? You're not dying, are you?"

" _No!"_ Omar cries. "Oh my gosh, Babkak, why would you say that?!"

Babkak just shrugs his shoulders.

"Things happen," he says. "So, you love Kassim. It's very sweet and all, but what do you want me to do about it?"

"Well, it's –" Omar starts, and winces. "I mean I just –" He huffs a breath, and decides to just cut to the chase. "How do I tellhim?"

"You… tell him?" Babkak suggests, grimacing. "You mean he doesn't know?"

" _No,"_ Omar grouses. "At least, I don't think he does. He _can't,_ or I wouldn't be in this mess. And he really, really does need to know. I _want_ him to know. So how do I tell him?"

Babkak sighs. "Why are you asking me?" he says. "You and I both know I've only ever been in love with a quiche."

"I thought it was a muffin," Omar mutters, then shakes himself out of it. "No, that's not the point – I can't just _tell him,"_ he goes on. "What if he freaks out? What if he doesn't like me back?"

Babkak barks with laughter at that.

"Oh, Omar," he chuckles, "I don't think you need to worry about that."

"But _what if?"_ Omar presses. "Or what if he's insecure about it, or he's not sure? I can't just _tell him,_ I need to…" He tries to say it with his hands, but all they do is sort of twist aimlessly, explaining nothing. He lets out a breath. "I need to tell him… _slowly."_

"So," says Babkak, "tell him slowly."

"But _how?"_ Omar whines. "I mean, I can't exactly just get him baklava and flowers, I need to –"

"Why not?"

Omar stares down at him.

"What?"

Babkak shrugs. _"Why not?"_ he says again.

Omar just keeps staring, uncomprehending.

"Well, he's a –"

He breaks off, and Babkak tilts his head, already scolding in advance.

"Are you gonna tell me he's a guy?" he says. "Because I don't see why that should make much of a difference."

Omar groans in frustration, looking to the ceiling for relief.

"It's not just _that,"_ he says. "He's _Kassim._ Why would he want _flowers?"_

Babkak's rolling pin hits the bench.

"Listen," he says, perfunctory and true. "Sure, Kassim's not the most… let's say he's not the _softest_ guy around. But you and I both know, he appreciates a big gesture as much as anyone, including you. Why _not_ get him some flowers? And a big heart-shaped box of something? It'll flatter him, and he is so weak to flattery. He'll love it."

Omar stares at him, brows creased down at the edges in worry and doubt. Then he folds over, with a low _"Eugh,"_ head hitting the bench with a dull _thud._ Babkak swats at him gently with the rolling pin.

"Hey," he scolds, "keep your hair out of my pastry."

"So you're saying I should, what," says Omar, straightening up – " _woo him?_ Like normal?"

"You want him not to be scared off?" says Babkak. "Absolutely. And the more dramatic, the better. He can't question your intentions when they're as obvious as that."

"You're _sure?"_ Omar presses. "You're _absolutely sure?"_

"Who's the oldest?" Babkak asks, and Omar sighs and gives the natural response.

" _You are."_

"Exactly," Babkak nods. "And I know both of you as well as anyone. Trust me: give him time, and a few sappy gestures, and he'll come around."

Omar buries his face in his hands.

"I can't believe I didn't think of this before," he mumbles.

"Simple but elegant," says Babkak, self-satisfied. "That's what I'm here for."

* * *

Omar goes to the gardens that very afternoon after work, where he and Miriam have finished putting the last details on Rami's suit. He trails after the gardeners in the waning light, asking for advice, then ends up with Esther at one elbow and Jamila at the other, one making excited suggestions and the other slightly more reasonable ones. Together, they put together a modest bouquet, of purples and blues and a profusion of dark greens, with some little white clusters scattered here and there for contrast. Omar can't remember any of the names of the flowers themselves, but Esther rattles them off with rapturous glee as they hurry back to the palace.

" _So,"_ she says, sly and friendly, as they approach the palace with the bunch held precious in Omar's hands, the stems wrapped up in a beautiful gold-edged ribbon Omar picked up from the Miriam's basket of offcuts – "who's it _for?"_

Jamila scoffs at that.

"Oh, come on Esther," she says, "we all know who it's _for."_

"I know," says Esther, waving Jamila down, "I just want to hear him say it. Omar?"

He looks down at the bouquet in his hands, held before him with pride and anticipation, like so many other bunches of flowers he's held, and yet unlike them all. "Kassim," he says to the flowers; then he feels his fingers go tighter against the ribbon, and a smile pull at his face, making his whole chest feel tight and fluttery. "They're for Kassim."

Grinning, he glances over at Esther and Jamila on either side of him, who both look happy in their own ways (Esther buoyantly; Jamila resignedly). He feels his heart swell even further.

"They're for _Kassim,"_ he says again, and nearly skips as he walks in pure excitement. "Gosh, I hope he likes them!"

"He'll _love_ them," Jamila drawls. "Trust me."

"Are you _sure?"_ Omar asks. "Are you _absolutely sure?_ What if he thinks –"

"No, no 'what if's!" Esther snaps, finger held out to shush him. "Remember?"

"Right, yes," Omar nods, and tries to keep a handle on his breathing. "No 'what if's, no speculation, no worries. Just give him the present and run."

"Well, don't _run,"_ says Esther, with a lot of care. "Just give him the present and… let things happen from there. Even if that means just walking away."

"But he's _going_ to love them," Jamila adds on. "You've got nothing to worry about."

The women leave him just inside the palace doors, called away by a servant on princess duties. Omar wonders what it is they do all day; but then, he supposes, a queen in training probably needs a lot of things fetched and carried, to say nothing of her hair, her rooms, her meetings and engagements. It really must be exhausting.

It's with these thoughts that Omar reaches the quarters he shares with his friends. He weaves between the pouffes and sofas – and then freezes, as the opposite door to the hallway opens, and Kassim steps through, shuffling his heels and dragging his turban off his head in an unwinding mess. He looks half-dead, slumped at the shoulders and rubbing his eyes.

"Kassim!" Omar calls, as he forces his feet to move again, hurrying across the room. Kassim looks up, and immediately, even across the huge hall, Omar can see his shoulders straighten a little, and the beginnings of a smile light up his expression.

"Omar," he says. "What's up? How's the – sewing stuff going?"

"Fine," says Omar, as he falls into step next to Kassim as they cross to his room. "Really good, actually, yeah. I think I might have a chance of staying on after probation. Miriam thinks I'm doing good work, even if Aisha never says anything."

"That's great!" Kassim grins, and slings his arm around Omar's shoulders, pulling him in briefly as they walk. It's only then that he registers the flowers in Omar's hands, and his grip goes loose, feet slowing, while his hand lingers on Omar's back.

"Oh," he says, smile slipping. "What – uh, what're the flowers for?"

Omar takes a breath; then he stops walking, which pulls Kassim to a halt a step in front of him, as his expression deepens into a frown.

"Well," says Omar – and he raises his eyes from his shoes to look at Kassim – and then he holds out the bouquet between them. "They're for you."

Kassim's eyes go almost comically wide. He stares first at Omar, then down at the flowers, then back at Omar again, lips parting in shock.

"Me?" he says, and glances down at the flowers again, where something makes him take a sharp breath. When he looks at Omar again, there's a smile pulling, almost confusedly, at his cheeks and the corners of his mouth, and he says: "These are for _me?"_

Omar offers the flowers a little more firmly between them.

"Yep," is all he can think to say. "I… thought you might – like them."

A laugh is shocked out of Kassim at that, and he reaches out to take the flowers, both hands covering Omar's for a few moments before Omar can find it in himself to let go.

"Omar –" says Kassim, seemingly at a loss himself. "I love them, thank you." He's breathing light and chuckly, whole face lit up with the smile now as he stares at the flowers in his hands. "Thank you!"

Omar is helpless to do anything but laugh back, high and quick with giddy relief.

"I'm glad you like them," he says through his giggling. "Well – I'll –"

"You're going somewhere?"

"Well, it's nearly dinner –"

"I hope I have a glass to keep these in –"

"There's water in my room if you need it –"

They both run out of nonsense things to say at the same time, and Omar has to press his lips together to stop himself from splitting his face apart with grinning.

"I'll see you at dinner," he finally says, and Kassim nods.

"Yeah, of course –" He looks like there's something else he wants to say or do, but he doesn't say or do it, merely gazes at Omar, with a bouquet he never even seemed to consider rejecting in his hands. "Yeah," he finally says, and his expression at last calms down into something manageably dazzling, merely warm rather than blazing with affection. "I'll see you there."

It's a near thing, but Omar just about manages not to run as he leaves the room. He finds himself pacing random hallways for a long time, trying to expend all the energy he's suddenly brimming with, no idea where it came from or how else to use it. It carries him through to dinner, though, where he sits across from Kassim and keeps catching secret smiles from him, returning them in kind, and perfectly aware of how Babkak, Esther, and Al are watching them with identical, knowing airs.

Maybe, Omar thinks – just maybe, everything will turn out okay.


	10. Chapter 10

It turns out Miriam was right. After a week of probationary work – in which Omar develops painful blisters on the ends of his fingers, along with what must be a thousand pin pricks all over his hands – Aisha lays all his work out over a table in the hallway, frowns contemplatively, and declares him "adequate to the task". With the feast in three days' time, he gets to stay on to finish up the last of the rush work, and is let go with a heavy purse and the promise of being contacted whenever the tailors' load increases. In the meantime, he still has his errand work in the city, which he carries out every afternoon he has free. It's been ages since he last had to ask Babkak or Aladdin for money.

Kassim keeps the flowers in his room until the water's all dried up and they're dead and dropping onto the floor. No one is entirely certain what combination of sentiment and laziness makes him do it.

Just under a week after the flowers, Omar and Tasnim go to the gift shop down the street. The palace is getting busy: it's been decided that Kassim is ready to be made an official royal vizier, and the occasion is grand enough that it needs to be marked with both a public and private ceremony, as well as a court celebration beforehand and an enormous feast and party afterwards. Omar and his friends don't worry about it much – the planning alone is going to take _ages_ – but the whole palace has already upped its game.

So it's kind of impressive that Omar – let alone Tasnim – finds half an hour to escape into the marketplace, especially when Omar spends half the time reassuring his usual errand clients that he'll still be working as much as he can. They buy some baklava – four different varieties in a red, heart-shaped box, wrapped in a golden ribbon – in a smaller option than the one Omar tried to foist on Al for the princess, as Tasnim assures him that caution is still a good idea, and Omar desperately doesn't want to risk scaring Kassim off. The man's reaction to the flowers has just about, maybe, possibly, come close to convincing him of Babkak and Al's point of view – that Kassim loves him back, in just the way he would want him to – but that doesn't mean he isn't frightened out of his wits about putting everything on the line to prove it.

When the shopkeeper asks if the gift is for Tasnim, she bursts out laughing, which at least makes Omar forget his nerves for a moment.

* * *

The next morning – the start of a new week – Omar gets a summons from Aisha just after the break of day. He's not naturally a very early riser, but by the time a servant wakes him with the news, and he's washed and dressed and hurrying out of his room, still tucking in his shirt, Babkak is only just leaving their quarters, and Kassim is slumped on a sofa, tousle-haired and mumbling in his pajamas, so Omar can't be all that late.

As soon as Omar walks through the door to Aisha's office, she orders "Take this," and dumps a huge pile of fabric into his arms. The quarters are a riot of activity – more than usual – and Omar had to dodge more than one pair of scissors to cross it.

Omar takes the pile of clothes with a low _"Oof,"_ and peers around it at Aisha, adjusting his grip.

"What do you want me to do with it?" he asks, squinting at the stack of rich silk embedded with beads and jewels and fine embroidery.

"Take it apart," says Aisha, already back at her desk and shuffling through papers. "We do this every spring: all the clothes everyone's done with, if it's not going to be worn again – which is usually the case – we take it apart and reuse whatever we can. All the beads and jewels and buttons need to come off, the ribbons, the embroidery, the seams, all of it, just take it apart. We're going at it with all we've for the next week: I'll expect you here every morning until it's done."

"Oh," says Omar, struggling to keep the pile upright. "Okay?"

"Excellent," says Aisha. "I think Ramlah has some room on her desk?"

* * *

Ramlah, it turns out, does not have much room on her desk; but compared to everyone else in the quarter, she's got the most. Omar dumps most of his pile of clothes on the floor, makes do with an empty drawer for the beads, buttons, and jewels, and gets to work. He tears seams, and snips thread with tiny, delicate scissors, and undoes embroidery and beadwork. By the end of the day, he's covered in tiny bits of thread, and is surrounded by piles and piles of different kinds of fabric and ribbons. All the piles go into big communal baskets in the main tailors' hall, and enormous jars for the buttons and beads that will all have to be sorted later, and by the time Omar makes it to dinner, he feels a little cross-eyed from the work.

"What happened to _you?"_ Esther asks as he sits down and nearly drops face-first into a plate of vegetables.

"More than that, why do you look like a weaver's shop exploded all over you?" adds Jamila.

"It's spring," Omar croaks over the table as Babkak piles his plate with flatbread and roasted meat. "They reuse old clothes. It's just all got to be taken apart first."

"Oh, man," Kassim groans in pity. "I am so sorry."

"You don't have to be," Omar sighs. "It's good work, after all."

"You don't look like it's good work," says Esther. Jamila snorts.

"Maybe not," says Omar, "But still." His mood is already lightening just from being around them all. When he asks, "Is that eggplant?", Al practically shoves the dish at him and says through a full mouth, "Not just _any_ eggplant!", and it occurs to Omar that a year ago, they were neither of them warm, and full of food, and wearing clothes that weren't falling to pieces on their backs. Babkak is reeling off a list of the spices in the eggplant, and Kassim is stretching out in his chair, smiling and sated, and they're surrounded by people who love them and whom they love back.

And there's a heart-shaped box in Omar's room with Kassim's name on it. Things, he decides, could be worse.

* * *

On his way to work the next day, Omar leaves the box outside Kassim's door. Even a royal-vizier-to-be doesn't need to get up before dawn, but the seamstresses and tailors do, and Omar knows for a fact that Kassim is going to sleep in: he bragged at dinner about not having any early meetings to go to while Aladdin and Jasmine have three before noon.

When Omar gets to the tailors' quarters, it's already a hive of activity. People are milling about, chatting and complaining, and already sorting out piles of clothes before they've even technically started work. Aisha's briefing, when it comes, is short and to the point – "Grab some clothes, and get tearing. Off you go." – and Omar obeys along with all the others. He sits with Ezra this time, and listens to new stories about his brother's children, as they take apart a many-layered dress and Ezra gets all the fiddly bits.

When lunchtime hits, Omar has to force himself to put away his work and go down to face Kassim in the royal halls. It's a bit of a trek from the working quarters, but Omar's gotten used to it, and he doesn't need to eat much. It does mean he always gets to the table after everyone else has started, though: he sidles into the chair next to Esther and reaches over Babkak for the last of the bread. Jasmine is just finishing up an argument with Tasnim about embroidery, and Omar tactfully keeps his mouth shut instead of telling them that he knows a dozen men and women who could probably teach them a thing or two.

"Oh, now that we're all here," says Kassim, swallowing a mouthful of food as soon as there's a lull – "I wanted to ask you guys. Does anyone know who the girl is that's sweet on me?"

Omar – cheeks stuffed with falafel – stares. He sees Al glance across at him.

"There's a girl who's sweet on you?" Al says to Kassim, who just shrugs.

"Some courtier, maybe," he says, "but my guess is, it's staff. It wouldn't be the first time," he adds, stretching his arms over his head and smirking. "But there was a heart-shaped box of baklava outside my door this morning that wasn't there last night, and I don't find it likely that a courtier got up early enough to dump it there without me noticing. I haven't seen someone staring, but…" He shrugs again, and takes a bite of bread. "Anyone got any clues?"

There is a very conspicuous silence at that. Babkak is trying to chew as quietly as possible.

"I haven't seen any women…" Tasnim starts, tactfully hesitant, and Kassim shrugs, tucking back into his food.

"Well who else would it be?" he says, taking an enormous bite, and Omar thinks, _In for a copper, in for a gold,_ and blurts out:

"It was me, actually." The whole table turns to stare at him. "I bought you the baklava. I left it there this morning before I went to work."

Kassim has stopped eating. There's a mouthful of chicken and tabouli and sauce in his cheek, and he's staring down the table at Omar as if the revelation has turned him to stone. Omar can't bring himself to look away, trying to be as certain and stubborn as possible, but he's pretty sure Babkak's stopped chewing entirely. He wishes all his friends weren't holding their breaths, but that appears to be the audience he's gotten.

Finally, Kassim swallows his food.

"Oh," he says. "Well." He blinks. "Thank you."

There is a faint _thud_ , and Kassim flinches, and Omar has the distinct impression that Babkak's just kicked his shin under the table.

"Don't you have _something else_ to say,Kassim?" says Al, with a very leading tone and only a little more gentleness than Babkak's shoe.

"Oh," is all Kassim gets out. Omar can't take his eyes off him, but he's fairly sure he sees Jamila slowly lean forward and drop her forehead onto the table.

"You're welcome," says Omar, pretty much meaning it, though by the slight, high-pitched sound it elicits from Esther, it's not enough.

Kassim swallows again, though he hasn't eaten anything more. Then he shakes himself just a little, and busies himself with his plate, sawing at another piece of chicken. "So, how about that meeting!" he says, rather more loudly than necessary in the near-silent room. "Jasmine, you were saying how the public water still needs regulation!"

Jasmine, after glancing between Kassim and Omar with an expression of mild panic, locks eyes with Aladdin, who just gives a small, discombobulated shrug.

"Yes!" she finally settles on. "Yes, the, uh – the wells in the main districts of the city are fine, but – there are still reports of supplies to the public fountains in the outer suburbs? Being broken off or contaminated. We ought to look into that, right Al?"

Al nods vociferously through a hasty mouthful of falafel.

"Oh yeah," he says, muffled. "Yeah, if the public water can't be trusted, then sanitation and public health become an issue, and we all remember that plague outbreak a few years ago…"

The conversation descends into who remembers what about the epidemic, then into various one-ups and complaints about illnesses and whether or not they should be discussed during meals, and at last fades away into something natural. Kassim shovels food into his mouth and doesn't say a word more, barely looking up from his plate, while Omar finishes his lunch while trying not to stare. All he really manages is sending bewildered looks at Babkak and Esther at regular intervals.

The meal finishes normally enough, with Kassim escaping early and everyone else trailing away to their respective jobs and duties. As she goes, Esther gives Omar a smirk and a thumbs up, and Omar's heart lifts even as he wants to sink into the floor and disappear. Still, when Omar gets back to work, everyone's cloaks are lying in a pile by the door, eschewed in favor of the afternoon sun, and perhaps it's just Omar's imagination, but he feels like the whole palace has perked up a bit, full of happy chatter and good will, and a carefree sort of charm. It lightens his mood remarkably.

* * *

As Kassim's friends – and the prince – Babkak, Omar, and Aladdin are given top priority in the organizing department for the inauguration. Which is great, except for the part where _they need to organize almost everything._ Omar gives a design brief to the entire tailoring department for the parties (which mostly boils down to "Make everyone look good, and make Kassim look important,"), and is then immediately roped into occasional work on all the new suits and dresses and alterations while Aisha and the head seamstresses and tailors work on the royal family and viziers' outfits. He also gets to help choreograph a number for the party, and is involved in meetings about seating arrangements and processions and public addresses. Babkak is given an extraordinary command for a feast, as well as all the nibbles and drinks to be served at the various parties, and seems to spend more time than even he could want in the kitchens. He's up before dawn and never back until after dark, except when he drags a team of servants into the marketplace to source all of Kassim's favorite foods, and a few specific ones he absolutely hates.

Al and Kassim get the worst of it, of course. As Kassim is to be sworn in as Royal Advisor to the Prince – and Future Royal Advisor to the Future Sultan – they both need to learn all kinds of duties, including but not limited to daily expectations, official rules for interacting with nobility and other royal families and their courts, and the ceremonies involved in Kassim's inauguration. They appear in and out of fittings in the tailoring department with Aisha, and although Aladdin knows how to exercise patience when he needs to, when Kassim is there, Omar is all but ordered to bring his sewing into the fitting room, if only to keep him talking and therefore still instead of irritable. Kassim has dealt with much worse injuries than a few pinpricks, but a passerby might think he's the softest, most well-bred courtier in the kingdom, with the way he carries on about them.

Finally, a week before the ceremony, Aisha snaps her fingers at Omar and pulls him aside into her office, where a preliminary version of Kassim's new official outfit hangs on a form, resplendent and heavy-looking and ready for a fitting. Aisha says, "Well?", and Omar's eyes go wide, as he tries very hard to think of the most tactful way to put it.

* * *

"I am _not_ wearing _that."_

Omar shrugs at Aisha from the other side of Kassim, helpless.

"I told you he'd hate it," he says.

"I am _not wearing that!"_ Kassim repeats, to Aisha properly this time, pointing at the clothes on their form with a kind of bewildered accusation. It's an almost exact copy of what they remember Jafar wearing: long, heavy, velvet robes, in black and red with intricate silver patterning, hanging bell sleeves, and a cape that forms a puddle on the floor. Omar can't imagine it on Kassim, no matter how hard he tries. Frankly, he's wondering why anyone in Agrabah would bother wearing velvet at all.

"It's _traditional,"_ Aisha sighs. "The royal vizier has worn a uniform like this since my grandmother's time at least."  
"It there some kind of law written down about it?" asks Kassim, harsh but fair.

"No," Aisha starts, but as soon as the answer's out, Kassim carries right on.

"Is it a religious thing? Is it practicality?" he demands. "Does it actually _mean_ anything?"

"Well, _no,"_ Aisha relents. "But it's tradition."

"Well, screw the tradition," Kassim scowls. "How am I supposed to run in that? And what are those sleeves, how does anyone get anything done in those? I can't wear that, I wouldn't be able to _move!"_

Aisha's face is already in her hands. Omar grimaces across the room at her.

"I did warn you," is all he can really say.

"You did," says Aisha, with unfamiliar resignation. "You really, really did."

"What's _essential?"_ Omar says, trying to find something positive in the situation. "What's a matter of state, of the rules? He can wear whatever he wants other than that, right?"

"I don't have to carry around that stupid staff thing, do I?" asks Kassim, arms crossed over his chest.

"No, you don't," says Aisha. "That was Jafar's addition. He took the whole snake imagery thing a bit… seriously."

"And does it have to be _robes?"_

"No," Aisha sighs yet again. "No it doesn't. The only thing that's really necessary is the sigil."

"The what?" Omar and Kassim echo in unison. In answer, Aisha reaches up and plucks the elaborate, feathered, jeweled turban from the top of the form.

"This symbol, here," she says, pointing out the twisted ruby symbol pinned to the front, looking something like a snake, and something like a flickering flame, and something not at all like either of those things. "You have to wear a turban, but it can be as simple as you like, so long as you've got this pinned to the front of it. It's a matter of respect, and piety, and responsibility, and authority. _That's_ non-negotiable."

"Okay…" says Kassim slowly. "Okay. I guess I can handle that."

"You'll still need newer clothes," adds Aisha, eyeing his outfit with a judgmental tilt to her brow. "And a robe for official occasions. The royal vizier is expected to –"

"God, don't tell me," mutters Kassim. "I'm sick of hearing what the _royal vizier_ is expected to do, and say, and eat, and wear, and – _eugh."_

Omar knows his face is pinched, as displeasure oozes its way down his throat and into his chest. _"Kassim,"_ he says, with a note of warning, and Kassim glances over at him, and his mouth goes sour and pursed.

"Fine," he says, rolling his eyes at Omar. "I'll wear the stupid sigil, and I'll get some nicer clothes. Happy now?"

"Perfectly," Aisha monotones. "Out you get then – we've got work to do."

Kassim rears back and stumbles towards the door as Aisha flaps her hands at him to make him leave.

"But Omar –" he starts.

"Has work to do," Aisha finishes over him. "Go on!"

When Kassim catches Omar's eye over her headscarf as he's ushered out the door, the most Omar can do is shrug, and stifle a laugh. When Aisha snaps the door shut after Kassim and turns with a huff, Omar just shrugs again, helpless not to smile.

"He's really very predictable, you know."

* * *

The preparations go on. Kassim goes through three fittings for his new clothes, including an official-looking, black-and-red robe he's forced into for ceremonies, heavy and glittering with jewels. The plans for the feast are just about ready, and, according to Al's report, they've memorized to precision the words they'll have to say in the ceremonies. Tasnim is very busy picking out flowers and color schemes to go with what the current advisors and designers have decided on, though she grumbles over dinner about not having Omar's help. Esther seems to be making up for it very well, though, judging by the way she and Tasnim catch eyes and smile at each other across the table. No one has mentioned the flowers or baklava for nearly a month.

In the meantime, Omar has to give up his errands. Between his usual tailoring work and the chaos surrounding the inauguration, he's at the palace full-time, with hardly a moment to spare. There's almost something invigorating about being so needed, after feeling extraneous for so long. He and Babkak are invited to meetings with Jasmine, Aladdin, Kassim, and the sultan, where they mostly just sit and listen, but it's an honor to be included nonetheless. As close friends of both parties involved in the prince-advisor partnership, they're considered vital to the process, and kept in the loop of everything except the most particular details of the ceremony itself. That duty is overseen only by the sultan and his advisors, and passed on only to Aladdin and Kassim. Still, it's nice to be included.

Of course, it's all going a little bit _too_ smoothly. Something – or someone – is bound to snap before long. Unsurprisingly that someone is Kassim; even less surprisingly, he leaves it to the last possible, dramatic moment.

* * *

His arrival in their shared quarters the night before the ceremony is heralded by the clatter of sprinting feet, and the wrenching and slamming of doors. Omar and Babkak – from their exhausted heaps on a sofa each – sit up and lock eyes with each other in a moment of shared apprehension. A second later, Kassim comes bursting through the hall doors.

"I can't do this!"

He's gulping and out of breath, chest heaving, and with a faint sheen of sweat on his brow and collar. He shuts the doors behind him, pushing his back against them as if trying to stop an intruder following him in, and shakes his head, wheezing "I can't do this," again towards the ceiling and shutting his eyes, hard.

"Can't do what?" Babkak asks, carefully, as he rises to his feet.

"Royal Advisor?!" Kassim bursts out, almost angry, as if it should be obvious. "I can't do it, I can't be that!" He steps away from the door, stumbling towards them, arms flailing. "I can't have _responsibilities,"_ he goes on, "I can't have 'Royal' in my name, that's not me! I just want to – to have fun, and steal stuff, I can't be cooped up in the palace for the rest of my life! I can't wear a _robe!"_

Babkak is halfway to Kassim by now, hands held palms-forward between them.

"Kassim," he says slowly, "you're panicking."

"Of course I'm panicking!" Kassim cries, voice cracking. "They want to make me _Royal Advisor!"_

"Yeah, and they want Al to be the sultan," Omar points out. It only seems to fuel Kassim on.

" _Exactly!"_ he shouts, with a half-manic gesture. "It's insane! We're street rats, not royalty!"

"What do you mean?" says Omar, a bit offended at his reaction. "I think he can do it."

"Yeah, 'cause Al's a _good guy,"_ Kassim drawls. "I'm not a good guy, I'm a terrible guy!"

"Well, even I think that's selling yourself a bit short," frowns Babkak. "You're not exactly Jafar."

"I'm not saying I'm _evil,"_ sighs Kassim, exasperated. "But I'm not _Al._ Al's all – selfless, and nice, and… gooey." He says them like they're traits which he finds admirable, but slightly disgusting, a twinge in his voice and nose. "I'm not that! I just want to have fun, and not be hungry! That's not _Royal Advisor_ stuff! Royal Advisors stay at the palace and make _laws,_ and give _advice._ I can't give advice!"

"Kassim, sit down," Babkak sighs. When Kassim's only response is to scoff and start to pace, Babkak grabs him by the arms and forces him down onto a pouffe, snapping before Kassim can do more than open his mouth to protest. _"Listen to me._ No one's expecting you to be the next Jafar, or the next Al-Hashim, or any of the others. Al could have a whole council of advisors if he wants, and I bet he _will_ want, because he knows exactly what you're like and he knows you'd hate being a politician full-time. He'll have Jasmine, and all of _her_ advisors if she has them, and I'm willing to bet she will, she's not stupid. It's not all on you."

Kassim looks very pained, all grimaces and stretched brows. When he speaks, his voice is broken and worn, finally cracking under the stress of it all. It makes Omar want to hug him.

"Then why the hell did he ask me to do this in the first place?"

"Because he doesn't need an advisor," says Omar, even as the thought itself dawns on him. "He needs a friend."

" _What?"_

Omar hurries over to Babkak and Kassim's side, almost buzzing with the realization, as Kassim winces and Babkak looks remarkably proud.

"It's something Esther once told me," says Omar hurriedly, too excited to control himself. "She and the girls, they're Jasmine's friends, yeah, but they were her servants first. They help her with what they can, but if it really came down to it, she could just order them around, she doesn't have to listen to them. There's a block there. They're not completely free. _You are."_

Kassim is still a little short of breath.

"You're not making sense," he says. "What has this got to do with Esther? She's not an advisor."

"No, Omar's right," Babkak nods. "Al didn't ask you to be his advisor just so you could help him out with policies and laws."

"Then why the hell have I been _studying_ all that?!" snaps Kassim.

"It's still good to know what you're talking about," says Babkak, rolling his eyes. "But you're not there for that. You're there to call him out."

"Call him out?"

It looks like the shock, at least, is working to calm Kassim down.

"Al's going to be the _sultan,_ Kassim," says Babkak, like it should be blindingly obvious. "People don't like saying 'no' to the sultan. But you knew him before all this, and you certainly don't have any patience for authority. You'll tell him when he's wrong, or when he's doing something stupid, like you did with the Prince Ali scam. You'll tell him when you think he's making the wrong decision. But it's not all on you. You can still hang out with us, you can go into the city or go travelling. Al's got other people for the day to day stuff, for the boring stuff. Okay, you can't keep stealing, but you probably should have stopped doing that anyway. It's going to be fine."

But Kassim is shaking his head.

"I can't do this," he breathes out, and drops his head into his hands. "This wasn't meant to be me."

"Yes it was," says Babkak, as calm as anything. "And yes, you can."

Omar peers at him askance.

"Was that a compliment?" he asks under his breath. Babkak snorts out a laugh.

"Don't tell anyone," he mutters, then goes on in a normal voice. "Kassim? You're going to be fine."

"I don't think I am," the man groans from behind his hands; but he isn't panicking, which is a start, and he's more dramatic than genuinely stressed now, which is a few steps ahead of that. Comforted by the performance, Omar sits down next to him and tucks his arm around Kassim's back, tugging him in for a bit of a sideways hug.

"It's not a prison sentence," he says. "We'll all still be here. Nothing will have to change."

"So much has _already_ changed," Kassim grumbles. "That doesn't mean much."

"You're going to be fine, Kassim," Babkak repeats, gently kicking his ankle. "Listen to Omar, he knows what's best for you."

Omar shoots him a glare while he can before Kassim at last looks back up at them. Babkak speaks before he can complain again.

"We'll get through this like we have everything else," he says. "Together. It's going to be hard, and it's going to be different, but it's important to Al, and it's important to the kingdom, and most of all, it's important to the gang. We'll stick together, and we'll make it through. Like we always have."

Kassim still looks a little bewildered – eyes wide and brows creased over his hook nose – but he's calmed down at last.

"We'll make it through," he echoes; then after a moment, drops his head again and rakes his fingers through his hair, scratching the back of his neck in frustration. "If you say so."


	11. Chapter 11

The day of the inauguration arrives, predictably, far more quickly than anyone wants it to; but everything goes off without a hitch. The first party runs from just after dawn prayers, which means that everyone has to be up and organizing even before fajr: Babkak, Omar, and Kassim all trudge out of their rooms around the same time, half-dressed with messy hair and bruised eyes. They share a look of the most extreme suffering, before dragging their heels to their respective meetings before salat. But by the time of the official gatherings, the snacks and tea are passed smoothly around the gallery, and all the courtiers are bright-eyed and fawning, resplendent in their new clothes. Kassim and Aladdin are nowhere to be seen, in private meetings and being dressed in their royal finery, but Babkak and Omar keep a handle on things, along with the master of ceremonies whom Omar has really learned to admire over this whole ordeal.

The party dwindles; most people trickle away for noon prayers; then only the highest courtiers and the royal party are ushered into the throne room, Babkak and Omar among them. They find Sultan Hamed and his viziers, along with Jasmine and Al, to one side of the throne, decked out in the finest silk and precious jewels, turbans piled high with feathers, robes sweeping the floor. They're all decorated with markers of state: necklaces, bangles, scepters, swords, and patterns on headpieces and the trains of robes.

On the other side of the throne stands Kassim, alone, piled high with similar finery and his brand-new ceremonial robe, but with only the simplest turban on his head. He has an expression on his face somewhere between pride and constipation, and Babkak and Omar elbow each other and suppress identical smiles. Kassim, they can tell, is _absolutely terrified._

There's nothing to be afraid of, though. The highest vizier, Al-Hashim, says a few ceremonial words of approval, then Jasmine, then the sultan; then Al steps forward, and gives a small, horribly formal speech about duty and wisdom and responsibility. He looks like he's trying not to laugh, which at least seems to make Kassim relax by a fraction. Then the sultan steps forward, full of grandeur and ceremony, and Kassim swears to serve the sultan, and the prince and princess, and the kingdom, to the best of his reason and ability, with dignity and justice; and the sultan pins the winding, ruby symbol to Kassim's turban above his brow; and it's done. They both turn to the little gathering of the court, and let out a sigh of relief as polite applause is rung over with a whooping cheer from Omar.

Then the royal party crosses the palace to repeat the whole thing on a balcony overlooking the city square, and half an hour later, as Omar and Babkak set up for the celebration, they hear a ringing shout from the city. Maybe, Omar thinks, this whole royalty business wasn't a mistake at all.

The party that follows is a rousing success. The feast is delicious, and seems to go on for about forty courses, which Omar will later learn was entirely deliberate on Babkak's part: a course for every one of the legendary thieves. The dance numbers go well, and everyone has a fantastic time. Not everyone drinks, but there's wine and arak for those who do, and Omar is among them. With all his responsibilities done, he gets very tipsy, and congratulates his friends immensely, and somehow ends up on a sofa in the corner with Kassim half-asleep on his shoulder, the feather in his turban tickling Omar's chin. Without thought, their hands twine together in the space between them, and Omar – faintly, and through a haze of drowsiness – thinks about flowers picked from the palace garden, entirely unaware that when one of Kassim's hands drifts up to cradle his wrist, he's thinking of much the same thing. They've both been awake for far too long, and the party is winding to a close when Jasmine finds them, pulls them both to their feet, and all but orders them to go to bed.

Tipsy, Kassim hugs Omar before they part outside their bedroom doors. He doesn't say anything, but his arms are warm and tight, and wonderfully familiar, and the hallway is only dimly-lit by the fading lamplight. When Kassim tries to pull away, Omar hooks their hands together, so that he's reeled back, laughing faintly in his exhaustion.

"I need to sleep," he says, slurred with exhaustion and wine, even as he settles back into place in Omar's arms. "And I bet you do, too."

"Yeah, probably," Omar sighs over his shoulder. They stay like that for a moment, breathing slowly. Kassim's head shifts on Omar's shoulder.

"I didn't get to say it," he mumbles, eyes closed to the room, "in all the confusion around the ceremony, but – thanks for the baklava." His shoulders jolt with a little laugh, and Omar is glad he's still tipsy, so he doesn't have the brain power to interrogate that. Neither of them lets go for another long moment; it feels like they could fall asleep there, on their feet in the hallway. Finally, Omar huffs out a sigh, and thinks of his warm, soft mattress, and draws back just far enough to hint that they should part, even though they're still nose-to-nose. Kassim smiles and enjoys the proximity for a hazy moment or two – before, very abruptly, his eyes go comically wide.

"I need to sleep," he says again, more firmly this time, nearly but not quite tugging away. Omar has no excuse or explanation for what he says next. He just knows that he's exhausted from all the days and weeks of preparations, and the early start, and the stress of the parties and ceremonies, and he's had a bit too much to drink, and he just loves Kassim with more of himself than he knew he had, wants him close and warm forever, or at least a minute or two longer. The flickering shadows of the room make them feel like the only people in the city, and the way Kassim's hands are clenched in his clothes, as if trying not to let either of them leave, give him more confidence than he really feels.

What Omar says is:

"I want to kiss you."

There is silence for a long, long moment as Kassim looks at him, tries to meet his eye from so close they're blurry to each other, assessing, considering, deciding. Omar feels oddly patient – like they have all the time in the world, like this hall and its shadowy corners is suspended in water, away from the world – and watches as the wide-eyed tension in Kassim relaxes into something much more appealing, something pliant and happy and warm. Kassim leans in a little further, tips his head to avoid knocking their noses together, and seems entirely unaware of how foul both their breaths are from so close up.

"Oh, this is such a bad idea…" he whispers; then a second later, he's shutting his eyes and kissing Omar, gentle and determined all at once. Omar leans into it, with a little hum of satisfaction, and sure, his mouth is kind of numb from the arak, and he already feels half-asleep, but he knows that it's _wonderful._ Kassim's hands move forward to link around Omar's waist, and Omar hooks his fingers into Kassim's collar, and they spend a good, long minute like that, with Kassim sighing something incomprehensible into his mouth. Omar knows he's going to forget these details in the morning, but it doesn't matter, because _Kassim is kissing him again,_ careful and uncertain yet quite sure.

They part eventually, when one of the lamps in the corner winks out and hushes them into a closer darkness. They laugh a little bit, deliriously tired, and Omar kisses him once more, short and hard, getting a final peck in response.

" _Good night,"_ Kassim chuckles, firmly pulling away, hands flexing when they leave Omar's clothes. "Good night."

"Good night," Omar echoes, biting his lip as he backs away towards his bedroom door, Kassim mirroring him. They laugh one more time, before finally turning away and disappearing into their respective rooms, giddy with alcohol and kisses.

Seconds later, Omar is planted face-first in his bed, quickly hurtling into sleep.

* * *

Everyone in the palace with 'Royal' in their title gets the morning off, which of course doesn't include Omar, but that's fine. He feels like crap when he gets up in the morning, but sometimes bad things happen and he just has to deal with them. As always, Omar reflects that, in his old life, 'bad things happening' usually meant some kind of horrible infection, or fainting from starvation and exhaustion, or excruciating cramps from having his hands manacled behind his back for four days. A bit of a hangover and not enough sleep before work is really the least of what he's had to deal with.

So Omar goes to the tailors' quarters, where their work has suddenly plummeted, and he only needs to spend a quick morning shift squinting blearily at his sewing while Miriam laughs at him behind her hand. When he trudges back down to their quarters before lunch, it's to find Babkak reading a scroll and nibbling on a piece of bread and sauce on one of the couches, still in his pajamas. He mumbles something in greeting, and Omar mumbles back, and drags his turban off his head as he sinks onto another of the couches, tipping over onto his side. He really needs to sleep.

"How are you feeling?" Babkak asks. Omar just groans something nonsense in response, and Babkak laughs. "That good, huh?"

"Food," Omar mumbles. "Water. Sleep."

"The essentials."

At that moment, Kassim's door cracks open, and the man himself squints out at them. He's still dressed in his finery from the night before, though rather more crumpled and bedraggled, and Omar gets a vivid flash of memory, of the feeling of those gems sewn into the collar of his vest digging into his palms as he held on while they kissed. Omar goes very tense.

"What time is it?" Kassim croaks, leaning heavily on the doors.

"Just past ten?" says Babkak, as he cocks his head to one side and scrutinizes Omar. A second later, he rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I'm going to… go get some breakfast for you two…" he mutters, as he heaves himself to his feet and shuffles out the door, plate in hand, shaking his head. Omar has the distinct feeling he hears Babkak saying "Idiots," as he leaves. He sits up, awkward and stiff, as Kassim yawns, and runs his hand through his hair, steps out of his room and _finally_ seems to remember the night before, freezing in place with his eyes wide and his arm tantalizingly upstretched. With a breath of hesitation, he at last meets Omar's gaze.

"Um," he says, still hoarse – "did we…?"

Omar clears his throat.

"Yeah," he says, "I think we did. No, I _know_ we did."

"Right," Kassim nods, slowly easing back into movement as he shuffles towards Omar's couch. "Right." And he sinks down onto the cushions next to Omar, whose knees and hands are drawing in to hold on tight, make himself small and unobtrusive.

Kassim is silent a moment longer, clearly thinking hard. He frowns, and looks up at Omar next to him. "Just kissing?" he says, and Omar nods, and Kassim nods, and he looks back down at the floor, still frowning. "Right," he says again. "Cool."

Omar frowns, and turns his head to Kassim.

"… _Cool?"_

Kassim's shoulders slump with a sigh, and he buries his face in his hands.

"I'm sorry," he groans, "I really shouldn't have –"

"You don't have to apologize," Omar scowls back. "I asked you to."

"You did?" says Kassim, looking up at him again, and then his eyes go wide with remembrance, and he says "Oh, you did!", followed immediately by "Oh, God –" as he drops his face back into his hands. "I still shouldn't have."

"You're being ridiculous," says Omar, starting to relax. Kassim sulking is at least familiar. "We'd both been drinking. It's no big deal."

"It's a bit of a big deal," Kassim mumbles. "But if you say so…"

The whole thing is a disaster, Omar decides, looking at the exhausted slump of Kassim's shoulders. He sighs.

"I think I'm going to go help Babkak with the breakfast," he says. Kassim just nods in reply, and when Omar stands up, he sinks down to one side, lying down in the space Omar's just vacated. Omar laughs at that.

"Don't fall asleep again," he warns. Kassim nods, eyes already closed.

It's a hopeless case, really.

* * *

They get through the day, nursing headaches and dry mouths. Then the next day, they're right back to their usual, busy schedules. Omar gets to run a few errands again in the marketplace, while Aisha and the rest of the tailors and seamstresses recover from the inauguration rush, and Kassim doesn't kiss him again, though he seems to spend a lot of time just looking at him across the table or over the back of a couch. Even Jasmine looks exhausted for a few days, and Aladdin has bags under his eyes almost heavy enough to rival Kassim's, though he admits to them more than the new vizier.

There's still a bit of work to be done with the tailors. The spring clean-up was never quite finished, so Omar spends the odd morning and afternoon taking apart a sleeve or embellishment, or labelling scraps of material. By the week after the inauguration, Omar is relegated to sorting beads and gems and buttons into bowls organized by color, clarity, material, size, and wear. He's just finishing up on the yellow diamonds when Aisha comes sidling through to his desk with piles of scrolls in her hands.

"Omar, what are you doing after lunch?" she asks, not looking at him.

"Uh," he says. "I figured I'd take these to the jewelers then have the afternoon off –"

"No you're not," Aisha interrupts. "You know the marketplace, right?"

Omar shrugs. He's started learning how to just go with Aisha's decisive flow. "Pretty well, yeah," he says. "Why, do you need something?"

"Baskets," she says. "And jars. There are always a few that go missing or get broken over the year, and we're running out of space for the salvaged material. We need one large basket like the ones in the hall, about half a dozen smaller ones, and ten more of the mid-sized jars for beads and jewels. I'm putting Saida on duty consolidating the old with the new, making sure there aren't any duplicates or anything half-filled. Can you do that?"

"You're sending me on an errand," says Omar, just for clarification, and Aisha finally looks straight at him, narrowing her eyes with suspicion.

" _Yes."_

Omar grins. "That's my _specialty,"_ he says, and Aisha looks almost relieved to hear it.

"Good," she nods. "Well, keep going, take those to the jewelers. First thing after lunch, you go straight to the marketplace. Do you need me to write it down?"

"Say it one more time?" says Omar.

"One large basket, six small, and ten medium jars," Aisha lists off. "Got it?"

"Got it."

And Aisha nods again, and strides out with her usual officiousness. On the other side of the room, Miriam casts a look across at Omar.

"It's so nice having occasionals around," she says. "A few months ago and it probably would've been _me_ she'd sent, and I would've needed it written down."

Omar shrugs, and concentrates back on unthreading a string of what he suspects are just well-crafted quartz pieces.

"It just takes practice," he says. "Most of the people in the marketplace don't have time to write down their orders for you. Come to think of it, most of them can't write at all. You get good at remembering things."

Miriam hums with approval. "I'm impressed," she says. On Omar's other side, Ezra lets out a little "Huh," of surprise.

"What else are you hiding behind that useless façade of yours?"

Omar frowns back at him, and says "That's not very nice," making him laugh.

"You sound just like my niece," says Ezra.

"Well then your niece sounds like a lovely, polite girl."

"He's got you there, you know," says Miriam, and Ezra laughs again, pleasantly enough that it makes Omar smile. They go on in that vein for the last little stretch until lunch, when Omar darts downstairs to the royal table for a few bites before heading out to the marketplace. He gets to eat with Jasmine, Esther, and Jamila, who are always lovely, especially now the inauguration is over. Jasmine gives him a curious look over her food, as if assessing him and coming to a positive conclusion, and Omar wonders who she's been speaking to, or who's been speaking to her.

Once he's full of bread and goat, Omar, fetches a bag of silver from his room, and changes into a more modest outfit that won't stick out like a sore thumb in the marketplace and make the merchants try and charge him double. Then he hurries out of the palace, through the grounds, and out past the gates into the city, where the afternoon sun is blazing down, cutting a swathe of brightness and warmth through the last of the winter chill.

Omar likes the people he works with, he reflects. He likes Jasmine and Esther and Jamila, and he likes being useful and needed and good at something other than picking pockets for once. He likes knowing that Kassim still wants to kiss him. And even if that comes with an undercurrent of bewilderment and fear, it makes him kind of happy to remember the closeness of his body as they slouched on a couch at the inauguration party, and even the warmth of him sitting next to him the morning after, distant and confused. He thinks about Kassim's reaction to the baklava, and decides that maybe he's not the only one who's not getting everything he wants after all.

The thought buoys him up along with the sunlight and purpose. He really should've known something was going to ruin the feeling.

Omar buys the baskets first, figuring it'll be easier to carry the jars once he has those. All the smaller ones fit inside the large one, which he can just barely wrap his arms around, heaving the thing ahead of him like an enormous pot belly. It makes him feel extra skinny. He's lugging the lot up the hill through a modest crowd to a glassware shop he knows, when someone's shoulder rams into his own, hard. He trips, and fumbles with the handle of the basket, and is turning with an apology already on his tongue when a gruff voice says, "Watch where you're going."

There are snake's heads on the man's shoulders, and a regulation beard on his chin. Omar baulks.

"Sorry," he says, bowing his head, "sorry, I didn't see you."

Rather, he wasn't expecting to bump into him quite so hard, because _no one_ bumps into anyone that hard without meaning to. The guard is looking him up and down, brow creasing and eyes narrowing.

"Yeah, I bet you didn't," he mutters, stepping closer. "Let me see this." Without waiting for an answer – without really asking at all – the guard plucks the heavy money bag from Omar's belt and opens it up to look inside. His eyebrows rise nearly to the edge of his turban at the sight of so much silver. The crowd in the street has mysteriously thinned, people slipping away into alleys or huddling against the walls, newcomers turning away at the corner of the street at the sight of a guard in full intimidation. Omar doesn't move.

"What's a guy like you doing with this much silver?" the guard asks, looking right at Omar, who is beginning to feel a familiar, choking fear creep up from his stomach and into his chest and throat.

"I –" he starts. "It's mine. I'm on an errand from –"

"An _errand?"_ the guard repeats. "Must be some pretty good errands to earn you money like this."

He glares at Omar, as if he's expecting a response, but Omar is well-versed in this kind of interaction. He just lowers his eyes to the baskets in his arms and says nothing. The guard curls his lip at that.

"Where'd you really get it?" he says.

Omar stays silent, mind whirling. If he tries to say he's an errand boy, the guard will just repeat that no errand boy earns that much, and if he tries to explain that he works at the palace, the guard will never believe him, because what palace worker dresses like a common errand boy? There's no reason for him to have been stopped in the street except, of course, for his clinking, heavy money pouch and his face which, Kassim and Al once explained, just screams _sap_.

Without warning, the guard strikes out with the back of his hand, hitting Omar's cheek with enough force and surprise that he yelps and drops his goods.

" _Where'd you get the money?"_ the guard repeats, starting to shout.

"I didn't steal it," Omar tries to explain, glaring at him. "It's my money, I earned it."

Then suddenly there's a hand gripped in the back of his shirt, and Omar's instincts kick right back in. He twists under the guard's arm and slips out of his reach for just a second; but then he grabs for the baskets when he should've started running, and the guard whips his sword from his belt, and there's a blinding flash of pain at the back of Omar's neck which buckles his knees and sends him sprawling into the dust. As Omar scrambles to his feet, the guard shifts his grip on his sword, holding the blade under Omar's nose, making him freeze.

"On your knees," the guard orders, and Omar – out of options – obeys. He eases back down onto his knees while still trying to keep his head above the sword in his face. With casual menace, the guard turns his hand so that the edge of the blade is turned up towards Omar, then flicks the sword around Omar's head, resting the blunt edge against the back of his neck. "Hands on the ground," he snarls, and Omar is powerless but to follow where he is impelled, resting his palms in the dirt.

His arms are trembling.

"Now," says the guard, "I think I'll be taking a few of these _illegal_ coins." Omar hears his money rattling, as the guard smugly shakes open the bag. "In exchange for not executing you right here and now."

" _Hey!"_ cries a sudden voice from across the street. _"Get your hands off him!"_

 _Kassim._ Omar's heart goes simultaneously heavy and light, confused and relieved.

"Who are you?" the guard demands, turning as Kassim storms across the street, hands tense and face stormy. As he reaches them, Kassim shoves his head forward and points conspicuously at the brand new ruby symbol adorning his turban.

"I'm a _royal vizier, asshole,"_ he growls, stopping in front of them and pointing down at Omar as the guard's eyes go wide. "And _he,"_ he adds, "is not only an innocent citizen, but a servant of the palace, and a _close, personal friend of Prince Aladdin._ So if you don't want to get yourself in a _world_ of trouble, you'll give him back his money and leave him the hell alone!"

The guard's face has gone ashen by now at Kassim's speech, and at the symbol pinned above his brow. Stuttering out a broken, half-formal apology, he sheaths his sword, bows, and drops Omar's money to the ground next to him. A few coins spill out, and Omar scoops them up, quiet and still unsteady, tucking the pouch back into his belt. Suddenly, Kassim's hands are under his elbow and around his back, hauling him up to his feet, automatic and almost perfunctory as Kassim continues to glare at the guard.

"Get out of here," he orders, and the guard bows again, backing away until Kassim snaps, _"Wait."_ His arms drop away from Omar, who is watching the exchange with surprise and not a little bit of awe. As the guard turns back to them, Kassim stands tall, back straight and gaze clear, like he'd get when they pulled off a decent scam. All that energy, however, is now blazing with righteous fury, and though his hands are in fists at his sides, his weight rests back off his toes, not quite ready to launch into a fight. Authority sits comfortably on his broad shoulders, and the orders sound well in his mouth.

"You have to do what I tell you," Kassim says, as if just realizing it, as he advances a few steps. The guard looks up at him, still half-bowing, brows turned down at the edges.

"Yes?"

"Don't just get out of here," Kassim drawls – "go straight to the palace. Report to Razoul. Tell him I sent you. Tell him you attacked an innocent man and a palace servant out of nothing but greed. Tell him – and I want you to use these exact words – tell him Kassim, the royal vizier, suggests that you be sent to empty all the chamber pots in the dungeons for the next week. Got it?"

The guard looks almost grey with fear.

"Got it," he says. "Sir."

"Good," Kassim grits out. _"Now –_ get out of here."

Dismissed, the guard spins and sprints away, cape fluttering and dirt crunching under his flying feet. In seconds, he's disappeared around the corner at the end of the street, and the crowd has started to inch back into motion, people moving again in whatever tasks they were on. In another moment, Kassim swivels on his heels and is back at Omar's side, breath rushing out of his lungs as he reaches out to grasp Omar's arms between his hands, peering into his face.

"Are you okay?" he asks, low and breathless. "Did he hurt you?"

"Nothing too bad," says Omar, wincing as he stretches his head to one side and rubs the back of his neck. "Thanks for the help," he adds, feeling rather abashed at still needing Kassim to save him. "I guess a thief's a thief no matter what."

"You're _not_ a thief," says Kassim, rolling his eyes. "That's me you're thinking of. _He_ saw shabby clothes and a heavy purse and he didn't just come to the wrong conclusion, he tried to use that to hurt and steal from you. He's the one being a dick."

"Either way," Omar sighs. "I'd kind of hoped this was going to stop happening by now."

"I'm not sure it'll ever stop happening." There's a contemptuous tilt to Kassim's mouth. "But that's on them, not us." His face is tight with something that's two steps away from a scheme, Omar can tell. But he doesn't run off: just stays where he is, standing right up close to Omar, hands on his upper arms, as he stares after where the guard disappeared.

"Kassim?" Omar tries. "Are _you_ okay?"

"What? Yeah, fine," he shrugs. "You're the one who was attacked, why wouldn't I be fine?"

Kassim is too close. Omar can smell him, the oil in his hair, and the dirt under his fingernails, and the sweat under his arms from heavy palace clothes in the late spring heat. All Omar wants to do is grab the front of his shirt and kiss him, bury his face in his sturdy neck, wrap his arms around his trim waist. He wants the hands on his arms to be light like when Omar gave him flowers, not heavy and tight with concern. His heart is still hammering from having a sword in his face, which is only making the proximity worse: it feels like his breath is being stolen away.

"It's just…" he finally says – "you're standing very close to me."

From Kassim's reaction, he hadn't even noticed. The little frown on his face eases up as he looks properly at Omar, not exactly nose-to-nose this time, but not far off it. His eyes dart down to where his hands are still resting on Omar's arms, and his fingers slacken, arms relaxing and dropping down.

He doesn't let go, though. ( _Praise Allah,_ Omar thinks.) Instead, he slips his hands down Omar's ragged sleeves until he's cradling his wrists between them, fingers light and thumbs stroking, watching where Omar's hands lie in his own.

Kassim swallows. When he speaks, his voice is a little hoarse, and it cracks just a bit on the first few words.

"I would rather die than see you in chains again."

And Omar remembers –

– _three pairs of manacled wrists –_

– _the beautiful patterned floor of the palace –_

– and he turns his hands in Kassim's and grips them, hard, swallowing his fear.

"I think I love you," he says.

Al was right. He just needed to be honest.

Kassim's eyes go wider even than they did with the flowers and the baklava, and after a second, his jaw actually drops, mouth popping open in surprise, but with nothing to say. Omar winces. "Sorry," he says, "was that too much?"

"N- _no,_ I –" Kassim stammers, trying for a smile and faltering spectacularly. He looks almost devastated, wide and lost. "I have to go," he says, looking over his shoulders. "We're meant to be inspecting the wells –"

Omar doesn't know what to think. It feels like there's a spell over them, which he's loathe to break by trying to speak. When Kassim meets his eye again, words seem to fail him, and his jaw just sort of hangs open, no sound coming out. He flinches a fraction of an inch forward, then starts just as much back, and seems to be avoiding looking at Omar's mouth.

Finally, Kassim plucks his hands out of Omar's, and takes a firm step backwards.

"I have to go," he says again. There's a crack in his voice that – despite his strength and his brashness and his usual wild conviction – seems almost fragile. Which is ridiculous, Omar thinks, but that doesn't stop it being true.

"I'll see you tonight," Omar says, before Kassim can turn away.

"Yeah," Kassim nods, making a better attempt at a smile. "Tonight. And I'm going to have a word with Razoul, this shouldn't be happening to you. This _never_ should've happened to you, to any of us."

"It's the way things are," Omar shrugs. "Do you really think it could change?"

Kassim's expression sets into something stubborn, and proud, and very ready to be angry.

"I'm going to _make_ it change," he growls; then adds, "After… the wells…"

"Get moving," Omar laughs. "I've still got to get back to Aisha."

So Kassim laughs, and turns, and takes half a step down the hill before he's spinning back around. Out of nowhere, he says, "You think you love me," as if the meaning has only just dawned on him. As if he wants to make sure he heard it right, to confirm before they walk away and pretend to forget it.

Omar takes a deep breath.

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I definitely do."

There is a long moment of silence; then Kassim is grinning, like his whole world has just been lit up from an interminable darkness, like the sun's come out on a cloudy day, like the world is wonderful and okay instead of terrible, for once.

Then he's dipping his head with a little laugh, and biting his tongue behind his lip. When he looks up at Omar again, he presses his mouth together, but can't stop the beam that lingers in his eyes.

"We both need to go," he says.

"I'll see you at dinner," says Omar, feeling his expression matching the joy in Kassim's, feeling his heart lift so much he must be floating a few inches above the ground. There's an answer in Kassim's face, unvoiced but sure, which Omar has been hoping to hear.

Then he bends down and hauls up his armful of baskets, and remembers that yes, they both have very important jobs to do.

" _Goodbye,"_ he smiles out, very determinedly, before turning and marching away. He hears Kassim's wild laugh as it retreats down the road behind him, and when he checks over his shoulder before turning the corner, he can just see the top of Kassim's turban as he whoops and jumps into the air at the other end of the street


	12. Chapter 12

Dinner that night is less than awkward. Omar spends most of it grinning as he tries to avoid where Kassim keeps nudging his feet with his own under the table. Babkak spends most of it rolling his eyes at them with Jamila, but Omar doesn't mind.

He shares a fist bump with Kassim outside their rooms before bed, and nothing more.

It's after work the next morning that he gets the real shock. He's coming out the door of the tailors' quarters with Miriam, at the back of the crowd of workers as they all filter away in the hall, chatting about Miriam's children, when a familiar voice shouts his name. When he looks up, he sees Kassim, craning his neck to see over the crowd. He's even out of breath, as if he's come sprinting there right out of a royal meeting. Omar feels like he's frowning and smiling at the same time, glad to see him, but very confused, and hoping nothing's wrong as the crowd disperses and he crosses the corridor, Miriam trailing behind. Kassim meets him in the middle, shouldering past anyone in his way.

"Hey," Omar smiles, as they reach each other. "Everything all right?"

"Yeah, yeah, fine," Kassim says, waving away any concerns, catching his breath. "I wanted to talk to you."

"Here?" Omar frowns. "I was just about to go down for lunch, you didn't have to come all the way up here."

Kassim takes a breath at that, looking directly at him, back straight and tall.

"Alone," he says. "I wanted to talk to you alone."

Something flutters in Omar's chest. He sees Kassim's hands clench and release at his sides, like he's almost nervous, and tilts his head a little, to look at him askance.

"O-okay," he says slowly. "What's up?"

Faintly, at the back of his mind, Omar has vague memories of Kassim being suave and smooth. Flirtation always came so easily to him: nonchalance his second nature, a flaunting swagger just a change in his stride. Sure, it sometimes got him a few slaps from strangers, but he'd always seemed to consider it worth a go. Now here he stands, in front of Omar – his friend, whom he's known for years, whom he's already fucked more than once – standing upright and still and swallowing his fear.

"Will you have dinner with me?"

Omar can't help it. The shock is quite enough. He feels a laugh burst out of his chest, and from the look on Kassim's face, he's both blessing and cursing him at once.

"We have dinner all the time," Omar says, because he's _fairly_ sure of what Kassim's saying, but he'd really like to be certain before he responds. The frustration is at least enough to shake the nerves from Kassim's shoulders.

"Not with the _others,"_ he says, rolling his eyes, "I meant with me. Alone. Not at the palace, we can go out into the city, just us. Y'know – a date."

Surprise and delight are warring behind Omar's breastbone. He feels his eyes going wide, even as the laughter lingers in his throat. He bites his lip, and the way Kassim's brows draw down at the edges at that seems very, very encouraging.

"A date?" he says. "With me – you mean, with _you?"_

"I know, aren't you lucky," Kassim shrugs, an affectation and also a little bit genuine, making Omar giggle and duck his head to try and stop the affection in his chest from beaming out of him. Kassim steps a little closer, like he's been impelled by some invisible force and not his own feet, and asks –

"Is that a 'yes'?"

Even Kassim looks surprised at that, at the unprecedented eagerness of his response; but then, he always has had a habit of letting his mouth run ahead of his brain. Omar just keeps grinning, as another laugh bubbles out of him. Surely, surely now he is floating.

"Yes," he says. "That's a 'yes'."

With lips pressed together, trying to stop himself from smiling too wide, Kassim looks infinitely pleased with himself. He steps even closer, and takes Omar's hands in his own, eyes darting to the bits of thread in Omar's hair.

"Good," he says, and licks his lips. "That's very good. I can – meet you at the palace gates when you finish work."

"Great!" Omar squeezes out past his grin, hands going tight on Kassim's.

"You should probably have lunch first, though," says Miriam behind them. Kassim freezes up at the interruption, but Omar just laughs, and pulls back just enough to glance over his shoulder.

"Miriam, have you met Kassim?" he says. "He's a Royal Vizier!"

* * *

Omar meets Kassim at the palace gates after work, as promised. Kassim holds his hand for a while as they walk. They determine that Kassim actually has no idea where to go, but Omar knows a few nice places, so they should probably just let him decide.

They end up at a fancy little place not far from the palace, high up on the hill and overlooking the marketplace from a respectable distance. It feels like the kind of place they wouldn't even have bothered trying to steal from, back in the day; Kassim eyes the fine crockery with something halfway between sardonic disbelief and professional interest. They eat heartily, at multiple small courses that could almost rival the palace for refinement. They rest their ankles together under the table, and hold hands every now and then above it. They talk about military law, and their weeks, and emergency public welfare.

It feels remarkably normal.

It feels _good._

* * *

That night, in the hall outside their rooms – idly lit with a few candles in the corners – Omar says, "This was fun, we should – we should do this again." As Kassim replies, "Yeah, we should," he drifts his left hand along Omar's arm, and with the very tips of his fingers, lifts his wrist and guides Omar's arm around his waist. Kassim's breath grows incrementally heavier, as Omar takes the hint and steps closer, winding his arm around Kassim's back, and Kassim slides his free hand across Omar's cheek.

They end up kissing for so long that Omar completely loses track of time. Kassim buries one hand in Omar's hair, fingers firm and languid against his skull, and holds him close by the arm, which leaves Omar free to pull him in by his back and his waist, luxuriating in the shape of him – muscle and skin and fat – and the heat which seeps through his clothes. He knows, intellectually, that they've kissed before. They've done much, much more, in fact, but the kissing is what's important here and now. He knows there can't be very much new to the process, not much that he isn't at least a little bit familiar with. As it turns out, however, it's been weeks and weeks and _weeks_ since he last kissed Kassim properly (drunk and exhausted after the party doesn't count), and to do so again is nothing short of thrilling. There's no fear or hesitation in how Kassim holds him, not anymore, and Omar knows that he'd let Kassim kiss him in the middle of the marketplace, on the balcony over the city, at dinner with all their friends; all he wants is to be able to kiss him at all. He takes all the time he needs to reacquaint himself with Kassim's mouth: the way he likes to curl his tongue; his quick, gasping breaths; the silky inside edge of his lip. Kassim doesn't seem to mind. When Omar opens his mouth, the taste of him – just out of reach – is familiar and brand new all at once, and by the way Kassim presses against him, he finds the sensation just as exhilarating.

They only stop when Babkak comes back from work and rolls his eyes at them with a loud, pointed _"Eugh,_ get a _room,"_ making Kassim glare and Omar laugh against his mouth. Which at least softens Kassim's glaring.

"I'll see you in the morning," Omar murmurs as Babkak's door shuts behind them, gaining another slow, dreamy kiss.

"In the morning," says Kassim, and Omar kisses him again, slow and dreamy again, because he can, and he might as well, and he wants to so very badly.

Omar feels like the giddy happiness bubbling up in his chest might keep him up all night. But he falls asleep quickly enough, and if he dreams, he likes to think it's about only the loveliest things.

* * *

Omar doesn't have work the next morning, so he oversleeps and misses breakfast. When he wanders into the kitchen for a bite to eat, still floating a little bit, Babkak just rolls his eyes again and passes him some bread, saying "I'm very happy for you both, but I'm don't want _any_ details. Understand?"

Omar grins at him, and he shakes his head, looking not a little bit smug.

Only Babkak, Esther, Tasnim, and Omar are at lunch, while everyone else deals with some lengthy royal problem – something to do with taxes and roads, according to Esther – and there's a remarkable dearth of errands that need running in the marketplace that afternoon, so Omar finds himself back at the palace rather earlier than usual, wandering around with nothing much to do. He ambles his way through a garden at one point, then escapes back into the palace out of the heat, slipping into the darkest and coolest room he can find: the library.

There's never been much reason for Omar to be in the library. He _can_ read, but it's not really his thing, not unless he has a proper object in mind. Still, there are only pockets of sunlight around desks and comfy chairs, and not a soul in sight, though he can hear one or two sets of footsteps amongst the labyrinthine shelves. The spines of books are soft and a bit dusty under his fingers, the edges of parchment and papyrus scrolls brittle and thin. He nearly gets lost, then finds himself at the outer wall, and starts to make his way around the enormous, circular room, looking for a door he recognizes.

It's not really a surprise that he runs into Kassim. Or, rather, it is a surprise, but it probably shouldn't be. The man still has a lot to learn as Royal Vizier, and the sultan still sets him and Aladdin a lot of research. So really, turning a corner to see a familiar red vest hunched over a table and surrounded by papers, with a turban with a winding symbol on the front resting on the desk, though it makes Omar's heart jump a few inches higher, isn't out of the ordinary.

"Kassim!" Omar whispers as he approaches, and watches as Kassim twitches, looks up, and then smiles, pushing out his seat.

"Hey, Omar," he says as he stands, loudly enough that someone out of sight a few shelves over shushes them in reprimand. Kassim snorts at that, stopping in front of Omar and lowering his voice to ask, "What are you doing here?"

"Nothing," Omar says with a shrug. "There wasn't much to do in the marketplace, and it's cooler in here than out in the gardens."

"By Allah, I bet," Kassim grumbles. "I'm telling you, official vizier robes are out of the question until fall, at least." He crosses his arms in a momentary sulk, then seems to remember himself, relaxing once more. Before Omar can say anything else, there's a sly smile on Kassim's face, and he's stepping closer, to take Omar's waist between his hands. Omar tries to stop himself from laughing too loud, even as he links his hands behind Kassim's neck.

"I've been meaning to ask," Kassim starts, slow and askance. "Are we…"

"Dating?" Omar finishes for him.

"Well, we did go on a date," says Kassim. "Are we going to go on another one?"

"If you like," Omar murmurs, drawing him nearer.

"Good." Kassim's voice is low, and so close Omar can almost feel his breath against his mouth. "Very good."

Then suddenly, Kassim is whisking Omar around, making him yelp as he throws him off-balance then expertly catches him again, actually _dipping him_ in the _library,_ which should be completely ridiculous, but then again, it is Kassim. There's another loud shushing from behind the shelves, and they both have to hold in a laugh. But Kassim's free hand is on the back of Omar's head, and then he's kissing him with the kind of earnestness that is entirely too ordinary for the position he's got them in.

"Hey Omar?" Kassim whispers when they part. Omar tries to match his tone.

"Yeah?"

They're too close to see properly, but Omar knows he's grinning when he speaks again.

"I really, really love you."

It's enough to make Omar's heart hurt, like it's swelling in his chest and ready to either burst, or just make him float away. Omar stretches his neck, and kisses Kassim again, soft and indulgent.

"Hey Kassim?" he whispers when they part, and already Kassim is beaming back down at him.

"Yeah?" he breathes back.

"I really, really love you too."

If possible, Kassim's smile gets somehow bigger and brighter before he kisses him again. Omar's been suspended almost horizontal for a weirdly long time, now, but it's not uncomfortable, per se. Not with Kassim's arms around him, at least. What _is_ uncomfortable is the sound of quick and certain footsteps, only faintly registered beyond all the kissing, and a familiar royal voice rounding the corner.

"Hey Kassim, have you seen – Oh."

Though Kassim's mouth detaches from Omar's at the interruption, he conspicuously fails to stand back up, and though there's a split-second's sensation of freefall, he doesn't drop Omar, either. Though the stitching in his shirt does give a slight straining sound under Omar's grip. At the nearest corner, Al is standing with one hand still on the bookshelf, eyebrows shot high with surprise. He's wearing his cape, which means he's probably just been in a very official meeting with people who call him "Your Highness" a lot, and was looking to be reminded of his own humanity a bit when he walked into the library.

Kassim seems utterly frozen. Omar can't think of anything better to do, so he just waves one hand from around Kassim's neck and tries a smile.

"Hi."

Al blinks.

"Right," he says. "Sorry. I was looking for Jasmine, she's… been reading up on clean water…"

Omar and Kassim – still bent one over the other – nod at him with blank, caught-out expressions. Kassim clears his throat.

"Not seen her since the meeting, no."

Al nods, very slowly. A moment later, he seems to collect himself with a little flinch.

"I'll just go," he says quickly, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder, and Kassim is finally startled into action.

"Aren't you surprised?" he blurts out, sounding quite bewildered. Al breaks off his escape and turns to them, cape swishing faintly against the marble floor, with an expression on his face that says the joke Kassim is telling is laughably poor.

"Kassim," he says – "come on."

There's a faint tremor in the muscles of Kassim's biceps which Omar is trying to ignore. After a moment, Kassim looks down at Omar again, and his mouth shrugs in acceptance.

"I did kind of tell him," Omar admits.

"I wasn't surprised then, either," says Al.

" _Seriously?"_ Kassim whines.

"Trust me," Al laughs, "neither of you were very subtle about it. I think Babkak cottoned on to it first."

"Of course he did," Kassim mutters with a roll of his eyes.

"Don't be mean," Omar snipes. "He was very supportive."

"What do you mean?" Kassim says with a frown.

"Well, I just –" Omar starts, but interrupts himself to tap Kassim on the back and say, "Could you let me up a bit?"

"Oh, right, sure," he mumbles, immediately righting himself and lifting Omar up onto his feet so they can talk a little more normally. Omar brushes himself off just once.

"I just mean, I… talked to him a little while ago. Asked him for advice," he explains. "It was his idea to get you the flowers and stuff. Well, no, it was my idea, but I didn't know if it was a _good_ idea, but he said it _was,_ so I… did…"

"It this is a conversation I should be here for?" says Al from the bookshelf, though there's an immeasurable fondness in the way he's smiling at them.

"It's fine," says Kassim, waving it all away. "Still. I thought I was being subtle."

Aladdin snorts, loud enough that whoever is still a few shelves away shushes them with even more vigorousness than before. The three of them try to stifle their laughter.

"So," says Al. "Does this mean you're good now? You've figured yourselves out?"

Omar looks at Kassim, and Kassim looks at Omar, and it feels for a moment as if everything has clicked perfectly into place, like the gears of some very expensive and delicate machine. Kassim looks like he's smirking, but Omar lets himself grin it out, shoulders jumping with a laugh.

"Yeah," he says, nodding, and Kassim adds, "We're good," and there's really no other way too put it. Somewhere in the moment, their hands have become tangled between them, arms twined like vines on a branch, and Omar doesn't really care about knowing when and how.

"Aladdin?" comes a whisper from around the corner. "Is that you?"

Al's face brightens incrementally, as it always does when Jasmine's around. A second later, she's rounding the corner with Jamila at her side; her face does something complicated at the sight that greets her, swiftly running through happiness at finding Al, confusion at the situation, and something sweet and not quite condescending when she registers Omar and Kassim.

"Oh, hey guys," she says. "Figured yourselves out then."

"Something like that," Omar grins, tugging Kassim close as he simultaneously rolls his eyes and holds Omar's hand a little more tightly. Jasmine's eyes are narrowing at them.

"Oh no," she says. "I just had a thought."

"What's that?" says Al, turning to her.

"We're not that bad," says Jasmine. "Right? I mean, you know. That sappy and kind of annoying but you can't really be annoyed because it's so sweet. Are we?"

"All the time," Jamila drawls. "It's infuriating."

Horror tugs at Jasmine's features. In response, Al just kisses her cheek and links his arm with hers.

"Bye, guys," he says to Omar and Kassim, as he pulls away Jasmine, clearly deep in self-reflection. "I was looking for you, you know…"

Jamila watches them round the corner for a moment, then looks at Omar with a raised eyebrow expressing the deepest contempt, as well as the most complete resignation. Then she follows the royal couple out, not saying a word. Kassim squints after them.

"Infuriating," he says, then turns that scrutinizing squint on Omar. "I think we can do better."

"Kassim!" Omar cries. "It's not a competition!"

"Isn't it?" says Kassim, with a cock of his head.

There's another loud shushing from nearby, and Kassim looks about to respond with something very rude and very noisy, so Omar shuts him up the best way he knows how.

* * *

Omar has never been particularly good in a crisis. That's why he has such incredible friends, who can support him, and teach him, and help him along. In return, he gives them all the kindness, and all the love, that he possibly can. And now, when something brims up in him, and he feels the phantom grip of Kassim's hand on his in comfort and in terror, he can find that hand again, and let it all be washed away.

Life at the palace isn't perfect; but Omar wouldn't have it any other way.


End file.
